cooking, eyes mostly open

P O T A T O   S O U P
Daniel Nyikos

I set up my computer and webcam in the kitchen
so I can ask my mother’s and aunt’s advice
as I cook soup for the first time alone.
My mother is in Utah. My aunt is in Hungary.
I show the onions to my mother with the webcam.
“Cut them smaller,” she advises.
“You only need a taste.”
I chop potatoes as the onions fry in my pan.
When I say I have no paprika to add to the broth,
they argue whether it can be called potato soup.
My mother says it will be white potato soup,
my aunt says potato soup must be red.
When I add sliced peppers, I ask many times
if I should put the water in now,
but they both say to wait until I add the potatoes.
I add Polish sausage because I can’t find Hungarian,
and I cook it so long the potatoes fall apart.
“You’ve made stew,” my mother says
when I hold up the whole pot to the camera.
They laugh and say I must get married soon.
I turn off the computer and eat alone.

Poem copyright ©2010 by Daniel Nyikos.
 

This is a big subject—food, cooking, eating—it could command its own blog. I imagine I could write about it endlessly, annoyed it was taking up so much time, but still able to find things to say. But I would rather write about cooking than cook. It isn't easy for me to think about food directly. I use a slantwise relationship; yes, we must eat, and eating that means some sort of cooking. But it is is something to get through, in a hurry to eat, in a hurry to clean up and be done with it. The less I deal with food, some part of me seems to be saying, the better. Yet I have everything to say about the subject.

But let's not start in infancy, or in childhood either—with my preschool's lukewarm tomato soup that sat in the styrofoam bowls so long it developed a film on top. Lets start in Hudson Heights with two toddlers and a kitchen size of most people's bedroom closet.

And with a husband who wants to arrive home at 7 PM and have a meal with his family. After four years of wretched meal-making—with grumpy, children flapping around me, trying to make something I want to eat and the kids want to eat that won't take too long or be too complicated and doesn't make too much of a mess, while more often than not the children fill up on goldfish crackers and raisins—and after a long fight with said husband, the children now eat at 6:00 without us. Whew. I know the research shows this will drive them to drugs and drinking, but I could not take it any longer. I cannot eat another meal with tired children who don't want what is on their plates (or prefer to mash it in their hair) while trying to make a stab at conversation with the husband. I was the one driven to drinking, threatening to go out for a drink by myself from 7 to 8 o'clock every night. Skip dinner entirely.

My alumni magazine (the much-loved Portland Magazine) recently published an article by the famed Michael Pollan. It was titled The End of Cooking (you can read it, too) and for someone who wants to avoid the subject, I devoured the article with a curious intensity. I kept hoping he had a solution. The problem was well-trodden ground. I don't want to serve my family only pre-made foods, pizza (or sushi) delivery, or Annie's mac-n-cheese every night. But I certainly don't have the time or the interest (or the space in my kitchen-closet) to make beef bourguignon.

But his solution was cooking, plain and simple. Home-cooking, Julia Child style cooking (not, however, Food Network style). No more looking at food out of the corner of my eye, rolling into the kitchen at 6:45 and asking "so what can we make?" and pulling out the bread for sandwiches.

I buy it, but I can't take it home with me. I can't do what he's asking, partially because I don't like cooking, and partially because it would take up far too much time. But I am trying one thing: to look directly at food. To accept that what I want to eat and what I want to cook do not correspond. I am trying to come up with some solutions. Like more slow-cooker meals. I pulled out all the recipes that I actually use from my little tin recipe box and put them up on flickr and linked them to my recipes on pinterest so that I can find them quickly on the ipad. I ordered ingredients for two meals this week and have already made one of the two (slow cooker corned beef—it turned out surprisingly well). And I'm asking Isaiah to try to taste one new food a week.

The kids now have "dessert" with Charles and I when he gets home, I don't care if they eat it or not. I focus on cooking (or concocting from leftovers) something that will please at least Charles and myself, without hungry children flailing on the kitchen floor begging for goldfish crackers. And I am accepting that while I appreciate all the foodies out there who can really get into (and photograph their progress through) a recipe, I would far rather photograph my way through a dress pattern or a walk in the park. And I still can try to feed my children home-cooked meals, at least most of the time.

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