I have two distinct images of my mother that I will always carry with me.
One is from Christmas 2007, when she was eighty-five years old. On October 5 of that year, she suffered a massive stroke that hit the absolute center of her brain. In the hospital, the next afternoon, a doctor in the ER told me it was likely she would have locked-in syndrome—she would not be able to speak or move ever again.
On October 7, the day after this dire diagnosis, my mother laughed. I walked into her room, saw her gray hair soaked with sweat and plastered against the top of her head, her skin a kind of faded yellow-green, the color of a fish out of the water for too long, the bright hues disappearing at the speed of life, and my first words were: “Lookin’ good, Mom.” Her eyes rolled in mock annoyance, her lips curled into a “Don’t be such a smartass” expression, and she barked out a hoarse chuckle. An hour or so after that, she crooked the index finger of her left hand—the right one was curled up in a rigid fist against her body—motioning me to come closer. “A lot of shit,” she managed to whisper.
The day after that, she began physical and speech therapy.
Several days later, she was moved to a rehabilitation center where she didn’t just have to learn how to walk and talk again, the therapists had to teach her how to swallow and eat and drink. Their prediction: she would never be able to go home.
On December 18, five weeks or so after she entered the facility, I managed to take her out of the rehab center in a wheelchair, with the help of my lifelong friend Paul Eagle. I probably should say “barely managed to” because it was as if two of the Three Stooges had been put in charge of this maneuver, and unfortunately we were Larry and Curly; we didn’t even have Moe’s mental dexterity. Forget about getting her in and out of the chair and in and out of the car, we couldn’t even figure out how to fold the wheelchair and stick it in the trunk. My mother marveled at our ineptitude the entire way, but somehow we moved her from West 110th Street to West 84th Street so she could attend an annual Christmas party thrown by our close friends, Kathleen Moloney and Dominick Abel. My mom hadn’t missed one of their seasonal bashes since she’d moved to New York over a decade earlier.
She would not allow me to wheel her into the party—she refused to enter like that. She insisted on walking in, which, with some assistance, is exactly what she did. She had dinner, participated in the evening’s conversation (she mostly listened; I don’t want to make her sound like some kind of superhero), and took some pleasure in being the center of attention. Toward the end of the evening, Dominick ceremoniously brought out his glorious special dessert, which he makes every year for the party, a mound of croquembouche: pastry cream–stuffed profiteroles piled high into a cone-like mound and linked with crunchy strands of caramel. My mother was the only other person I knew who ever made them (every Halloween, while most kids got Snickers and jelly beans from the neighbors, my mom made croquembouche, and that’s what she passed out to the small ghosts and princesses and aliens who knocked on her apartment door). As Dominick approached with the tray, my mom took one of the doughy balls very carefully with her left hand—her right hand and most of her right side were basically still useless at this point—and bit into it. I remember the look on her face as the taste resonated, and I watched her lick a dab of the custard that had settled on her upper lip. Our eyes met and, although she didn’t utter a word, I knew what she was saying to me: This is why I refused to die.
The other is from the late 1970s, a couple of years after another life-changing event. At the age of fifty-three she had taken her first-ever real job, a low-level one, in a fancy Los Angeles restaurant. I knew that she was quite suddenly immersed in a whole new understanding of and appreciation for food, chefs, and cooking, but I had yet to see any manifestation of that.
I was in L.A. on my first business trip there from New York and, not secure enough to trust that my company would actually fork out the dough to pay for a hotel room, I was reduced to staying with my parents. They lived in a beautiful 1920s Spanish-style house above Mulholland Drive, with a glittering airplane view of the San Fernando Valley. Coming straight from the airport, I pulled my Rent-a-Wreck car into their driveway and, small canvas suitcase in hand, went through the gate that led to the patio off the garage, then through the side door that opened into the kitchen. I stepped inside to see my mother, her back to me, preparing something on the well-worn tiled counter that snaked around most of the room. I’m not sure what she was making, but it was something substantial and weighty: an onion, perhaps, or carrots or potatoes. She was chopping, the way a real chef does, slicing down rapidly and efficiently with the knife in her right hand, effortlessly guiding the blade with her left, making sure the sharp edge could only come up against her knuckles and not cut into her skin. She didn’t immediately notice that I was there, so for several moments I was able to watch her closely. Displaying a remarkable sense of ease and comfort, she was at peace while she chopped. But there was also something more than that: she was in total command of this small and immediate world. Her movements showed a supreme confidence, a subtle but sublime control of her actions.
I had never seen this sort of satisfaction emanating from my mother before and I realized, for the first time, that I had never quite understood her. There were layers I had missed and a depth that had been kept hidden from me. My father was the dominant personality in our family: he was the public success, the one with the large ego, and our gregarious link to the outside world. But I had never observed this kind of quiet confidence in my father. He always seemed to be shadowed by doubt and, just beneath the surface, was clearly engaged in some sort of internal struggle.
After a few moments, my mother heard me, or maybe just sensed my presence, turned, and smiled. She put down her knife, wiped her hands instinctively on her apron, and kissed me on the cheek to say hello.
Moments later, my father came downstairs to greet me with his usual effusiveness and edgy affection. I went up to my old room to shower, change, and unpack, my dad headed back to his electric typewriter to continue working, and my mom continued preparing dinner. Even though I was now a bit of an outsider in their world, even though we were all well aware that my return was brief and temporary, life for the rest of that afternoon and evening was as it always had been.
Except I knew that, somehow, it really wasn’t.
* * *
IT IS NEVER easy to find comfort.
Not the kind that is lasting and true. Not the kind that confronts reality head-on rather than seeking to disguise it.
Faith is not comfort as far as I’m concerned. Faith is all about hoping to find comfort. I prefer something that will do me some good in the here and now. But the world does not seem to be designed that way. At least for most people.
My mom has most definitely never been most people.
In the early fall of 2014 I got a phone call from my mother, who had recently turned ninety-two. I could tell from her tone that she wanted to discuss something a bit more serious than the oversalted soup her aide had made or the tasteless tomatoes bought at the supermarket.
After her stroke in 2007, my mom couldn’t cook anymore—a genuine lessening of the quality of her life since cooking was a true and valued personal pleasure, not just a professional one. But her superb palate was unchanged. Her ability to distinguish between good and not-so-good food was probably more important to her than at any point in her life. So not long after her stoke, I arranged to have a young chef, a lovely woman named Jenny Cheng who had recently graduated from cooking school in New York, spend one day a week cooking for my mom. Jenny soon realized that my mother was more than just a passive diner; her knowledge of food was extensive and she loved to pass that knowledge on. So before long, in addition to cooking, Jenny also started going through the many cookbooks on my mom’s bookshelves and talking to my mother about food and recipes and technique, about flavors and taste.
My mother, quite aphasic after the stroke, had dismissed the idea of speech lessons and group speech classes from the very beginning of her home recovery process; she found them condescending for some reason, plus she didn’t love displaying her handicap in public. But discussing food with Jenny engaged and energized her and she realized she still had the ability to teach (and to make the food Jenny was preparing a lot better, taking back some of the control she had lost). Talking about her meals—critiquing what she had just eaten, going through recipes to figure out what she would eat the following week, telling stories about her various food-related experiences, reexploring recipes from the cookbooks she’d written over the years—was more than just an important element in her recovery, it was critical to maintaining her daily appreciation of life.
In time, Jenny had a baby and she was replaced by another terrific woman (and cook), Joyce Huang, who eventually also moved on, replaced by yet another wonderful woman and chef, Cynthia Tomasini. They are all passionate about what they do, and they value the time they have spent talking food with my mother; they learned as they worked. For my mom, these three women became a link to the outside world as well as to a much younger generation, a connection she valued as much as the delicious food they prepared for her.
On the phone that evening, my mother seemed subdued. Sensing that something was bothering her, I went over to her apartment—the apartment the doctors said she would never return to but where she is living comfortably with several wonderful live-in companions (thank you, long-term health care insurance!). Post-stroke, it is difficult for my mother to walk without someone holding her and guiding her. She needs help showering and with all bodily functions. Her hearing is pretty much gone. And it’s difficult for her to read and focus on anything much longer than a New York Times article. But what frustrates her the most is that her aphasia makes it difficult for her to have lengthy or substantive conversations. Her memory is perfect, she forgets nothing, and there is zero hint of any dementia, but it’s an aggravating and sometimes torturous process for her to recall certain words, particularly nouns and proper names. She will struggle, for instance, to come up with the name of the restaurant she ate in the night before or what kind of cuisine they serve, but she’ll tell you exactly where it is located, including the cross streets. She’ll also tell you precisely what she thought of the food.
On this night, we were having an impromptu dinner of Joyce’s leftovers when my mother made it clear that she was determined to say something, no matter the struggle. And she did. It was arduous and exhausting work for her, but she managed to say something she had never said to me before.
“I think … it’s … too hard.”
“What’s too hard?” I asked.
A long silence and then: “Life.”
“Really?”
I was shocked. My mother has had at least four different cancers and two strokes. When she was forty, she was given a 5 percent chance of living twelve more months due to a melanoma. When she was in her early seventies, she had her first stroke while in a tent, on safari in Africa. With the right side of her body partially paralyzed, she walked several miles, took a boat across a river, got to an airport so she could take a plane to London, spent the night at a hotel there, and then flew back to New York—I swear this is true!—at which point she called me to say she must have eaten some bad giraffe meat or something because she couldn’t move her right arm or leg. As I repeated her symptoms aloud, my longtime girlfriend, Janis Donnaud, was frantically mouthing the words, “She had a stroke! We have to get her to the hospital!” Which is what we did, and she spent several weeks there until she recovered fully.
But with all of that, she had never—not once, not ever—hinted that her life was anything but enjoyable.
I was certain my mom hadn’t heard me so I repeated, louder: “Really? You think your life is too hard?”
She nodded. And also made a face at me to show she knew I was talking too loud, because she hates any reference to her poor hearing and refuses to acknowledge the need for hearing aids, even though she is pretty much deaf as a stone. The only words she ever seems to hear clearly are those I mutter quietly, the ones she’s not supposed to hear.
“As in too hard to keep going?” I asked.
She shrugged. The shrug said: It’s possible.
“What’s so hard about it?” I asked. “Can you tell me?”
She nodded. “It’s hard.”
“I know. But what in particular?”
“Hard … for you.”
“For me? What do you mean?”
“Hard for you … to … take care of me.”
I couldn’t help it. I had to laugh. A few days earlier one of her air conditioners had sputtered and quit working—not a good thing during a summer heat wave—and I’d quickly purchased her a new one, arranging to have it delivered and installed. My mom doesn’t like that I have to handle many of her day-to-day problems—a new air conditioner, talking to the cable company when her TV goes out, scheduling her physical therapy—and it drives her crazy that I often don’t let her pay for whatever needs to be done. Of course, not everything goes off without a hitch, especially in Manhattan, and there was a screwup with the air conditioner delivery—my mother had gone out for a walk (actually, she went out for a wheel, as in wheelchair, but she likes to call it a walk) during the allotted delivery time. I’d gotten aggravated that I had to rearrange the service call and I guess hadn’t disguised my aggravation too well.
“So,” I said, “you’re talking about being ready to die because I had to buy you an air conditioner and got pissed off that you weren’t here when the guys delivered it?”
“Yes,” she said.
“I promise,” I told her, “your being alive is not too hard on me. In fact, I actually like it.”
She nodded, accepting the information.
“So other than being hard on me, you still like your life?”
“Yes,” she said.
She then took a bite of the duck breast that Joyce had made for her.
“How’s the duck?” I asked.
“Delicious,” my mom said. And suddenly all traces of her aphasia were gone. “Very well cooked. Better today at room temperature. Outside crisp but moist inside. Maybe too much salt.”
And there it was again. The same quiet confidence and discernment, the comfort that comes with knowledge, the calm that comes with understanding something from the inside.
Many months after my mother had her stroke, her doctor, a brilliant gerontologist, Mark Lachs, said something that astonished me and yet wasn’t really a surprise. “There’s something very odd about your mother’s recovery,” he said. “She never went through a period where she got depressed or angry. Everyone whose life changes the way hers has—she needs a constant companion, she’s lost most of her self-sufficiency, her aphasia, everything is a struggle—gets angry or depressed. I tried to put her on an antidepressant, which is normal for people in her position, but she refused. And I spent a lot of time talking to her about it. She’s not in denial, not in any way. She just seems to accept what happened and has refused to buckle under to it. She’s decided to do the best she can and be happy with what she’s got rather than worry about what she’s lost. I’ve never actually seen anything like it.”
I didn’t understand how she’d become that person. I don’t remember her being like that when I was a child. No one else was like that in my family. Not my dad, who got a huge amount of pleasure from so many things but was, at heart, angry and disappointed with a good chunk of what life had dealt him and frustrated by the compromises he’d chosen to make. Certainly not my brother, who is, as near as I can tell, unhappy to his core. My father’s side of the family could hardly be called happy-go-lucky. It would be hard to even label many of his relatives as sane. None of my mother’s sisters or brothers came even close to the kind of honorable and intelligent equanimity with which she goes through life. Nor do any of their children.
In some ways I come closest, I suppose. But it still isn’t all that close. I get a huge amount of pleasure out of life but also understand melancholy and fury and frustration. I am capable of punishing myself with regret over poor choices and missed opportunities and just plain screwups, can seethe over the injustices I perceive in the world, all too often struggle against the inevitable future, rage against narrow-minded thinking and people who shrink away from knowledge and facts, and feel defeated by the things I am unable to affect and change. I can also be brought to a near-murderous fury, especially when talking to Verizon representatives or pondering our insane gun culture, or reading about female genital mutilation in Africa or having to live through James Dolan’s reign over the Knicks, making the odds approximately a billion to one that I will ever see another championship banner in the Garden in my lifetime.
I wondered how my mother could be so damn accepting, wondered if I could ever be like that. If I really wanted to be like that. The fact is, I have always kind of liked my anger and thought I had it contained just enough so it worked in my favor. But now I was intrigued: What would life be like if I found that kind of peace? That kind of comfort? And I began to wonder how the hell one could achieve it.
I am not in any way a spiritual person. I never accepted that inner peace could come from something I basically think of as make-believe. I also never saw much difference between worshipping dead religious figures of yore, be it Jesus, Mohammed, or Joseph Smith, and worshipping circus clowns or balloon sculptures. They all have the same degree of believability as far as I’m concerned. I don’t understand patriotic fervor, either, which seems to be the other thing that grounds people and links them together. I’m not quite able to grasp the whole concept of thinking you’re better than someone else because of the geographical location in which you were born.
Narrowing things down, I also never thought that contentment could truly come from other people—from relationships or children or family. I think that to have a good relationship, one has to bring a certain amount of confidence and stability to that relationship, not hope to just make a withdrawal. Love and relationships and all that good stuff could build upon a foundation of happiness, but, for me, they could not create that foundation.
That pretty much exhausted my perceived channels to attain some kind of spiritual peace. I didn’t really know what the other choices were.
I looked at my mother across her dining table as she took another bite of Joyce’s duck, abandoning the whole hard-to-handle fork thing and taking the last piece in her good hand and putting it into her mouth. Chewing firmly, a small piece of the duck hanging from the corner of her mouth, she smiled without bothering to look up at me. “Yes,” she said, ending the conversation about the air conditioner and how hard things were for her or for me. “I still like my life.”
I wondered: How did she get to be who she is?
* * *
I LEFT MY mother’s apartment and for several days afterward I found myself obsessing more and more about the idea of family: What is it? Why do we either cling to our natural one or create new ones? What actually holds a family together or splits it apart?
Why does it seem to be the one thing in the world that, for better or worse, winds up defining who we are and how we respond to the world around us?
And perhaps most important: What is it about family that seems to be our main source of comfort—or the main reason we can’t find any?
At some point during my grappling and pondering, I realized that, going back generations, there was one thing that unquestionably dominated my family dynamic in a bizarre variety of ways: food.
My mother’s family owned a legendary Jewish dairy restaurant on the Lower East Side of New York City called Ratner’s. Started by my grandfather in the early 1900s, the restaurant had a huge influence on my family’s identity and on so many of our complicated family relationships—I know it had a profound effect on my mother as she was growing up. It shaped her—and later my—understanding of human nature.
In her fifties, my mother went to work at another legendary restaurant, this one in Los Angeles, Ma Maison. That move changed and reshaped her own life to a substantial degree, and it changed the lives of many others, especially those of her husband and her two children. It raised our level of sophistication, it broadened our views, it introduced us to a universe of people who possessed previously unknown skills and talents and even genius. It also, as she grew and evolved, caused a fairly seismic shift in the family dynamic and the roles we all eventually played going forward.
My father, who never in his life cooked a meal, as far as I know, loved to eat and drink. He also delighted in going to restaurants: he relished the fuss made over him as a regular customer and he got a thrill talking about wine to the sommeliers. Most of all he loved to use food and wine as a way to celebrate and to share. That has had a huge impact on the way I see life—and the way I perceive people who either share or don’t share.
So, at my instigation, my nonagenarian mother and I began to talk about food in a more in-depth way than we had probably ever discussed anything other than our immediate family.
I knew that food and the preparation of food were essential to my mother’s sense of well-being, but I realized that I didn’t know the actual foods that were important to her. I decided that was something important to me. So that’s where we began. I pressed her for specifics. It took some time, due to her aphasia, but over many meals—in and out of her kitchen—and a decent amount of wine, beer, and vodka, she eventually came up with a list.
We started with dessert and although she had something in mind, it was rough sledding. She struggled to come up with the name of even one special sweet. I asked pointed and focused questions, as one does with aphasic people, to try to narrow things down.
“Is it chocolate?” I asked.
“No.”
“Another flavor? Vanilla or coffee?”
“No.”
“A cake?”
“Yes, a cake.” Then, “No … not a cake. Like a cake.”
“A pie?”
“A pie.” Then, “Kind of.”
“Kind of a pie?”
She nodded.
“Fruit?”
She nodded again. It seemed like we were getting close. “Fruit.”
“Apple?”
“No.”
I went through a list of every possible pie fruit I could think of until I couldn’t even come up with the name of another fruit except for breadfruit, which I’m reasonably sure isn’t actually fruit. I even included, in my promptings, lychees and pomegranates, both of which I refuse to even acknowledge as actual foods. None of them bore fruit, as far as an answer. So I changed tack.
“Is it American?” I said. “Something you first ate here or in Europe?”
“Europe. Ate it … in Europe.”
“France?”
“France … Paris.”
“Is it a tarte tatin?”
“No.”
“Really? A kind of fruit pie you ate in Paris and it’s not tarte tatin?”
“No.”
“Are you sure it’s not apples?”
“No … I mean yes … I’m sure.”
“And it’s not lemons?”
“No.”
I started going through my fruit list again. “Raspberries? A raspberry tart?”
“No.”
“Pears?”
“No!” For some reason my mention of pears, the second time around, seemed to annoy her, as if it was a ridiculous choice.
“I think it’s a tarte tatin, Mom.”
“It isn’t.”
“Okay,” I said. “I know you’ll think of it. When you do, tell your companion so she’ll remember to tell me. Or you just call me.”
I went home soon after that exchange. Three hours later, she called me. When I picked up the phone, I heard:
“I thought of it.”
“Great. What is it?”
“Tarte tatin.”
I did my best not to laugh. “That’s the dessert you like the most?”
“Yes,” she said.
“I’m glad you thought of it. I never would have come up with the name on my own.”
Eventually, over time, we came up with her complete fantasy menu. We did it by meal, breakfast, lunch, and dinner, because that’s the way my mother tends to think: in total meals rather than just individual dishes. She thinks of food the way Sinatra, in the fifties, and the Beatles, in the sixties, took the concept of albums to a different level: they became whole entities, not just compilations of songs. As we went over the possible foods—and there were many—I did my best to narrow them down. The ones that made the final cut were selected not just because they are delicious but because they have emotional resonance for her. Each dish on the menu is in some way deeply meaningful to my mom.
When the list was complete, I didn’t know quite what to do with it. I wasn’t sure there was anything to do with it. But it was knowledge—some insight into my mom—and I was glad to have it.
And then one evening we started talking about a lot of things: my father, families in general, our family in particular, relationships, love, disappointment, pleasure, getting older, changes.
“Why did you like cooking so much?” I asked her. “’Cause it made other people so happy?”
“No,” she said, surprising me. “Well, partly … but … not really … about that.”
“Then what?”
“I like making other people happy. But … more about … me.”
She was silent for a while after that, but I waited. I could tell more was coming. That’s one of the interesting things about dealing with people who have lost some aspect of themselves that the rest of us take for granted. You pay closer attention to details that otherwise might be ignored. My mother couldn’t always say what she wanted but she always managed to communicate in another way—sometimes even through something as simple and eloquent as silence.
“I like understanding something … so well … I can turn it into whatever I want. I like the … the…”—her eyes started to roll in frustration; she was prepared to quit but then it came to her—“… the precision. A kind of … therapy. Chopping and cutting … hypnotic. No tension in cooking. Just…”
She tailed off and I thought she was finished until I prompted her one more time and she said, “It just works. I like doing something that works.” There was another silence and then she said, “It makes me … happy. Gives me…”
“What does it give you, Mom?”
She shook her head. She’d lost the word. Then she found it: “Definition.”
* * *
DEFINITION. DESPITE HER aphasia, my mother had nailed it. If there was anything that provides genuine comfort to people, it is finding and defining their own identity.
We use various labels to define ourselves. I am a Catholic. I am a Texan. I am a scientist. I am a feminist. I am a conservative. I am a rebel.
We find what makes us comfortable and we put ourselves in that box.
I am married. I am independent. I am rich. I am an artist. I am funny.
I am whatever links me to the world to which I want to be attached.
But food? As a way of providing a sense of self?
On my way home from my mother’s, I had a sudden flashback. Years ago, I spent quite a few weeks in Sicily, writing a novel and staying at a small caretaker’s cottage on the property of a thirteenth-century abbey. I had edited and published a cookbook by Wanda and Giovanna Tornabene, the mother and daughter who owned the abbey—and within that magnificent walled structure they ran the best restaurant on the whole island. Letting me stay in the cottage while I was on my writing jag was their way of thanking me for publishing their book and getting involved in their lives. And while I was there, they cooked for me—oh, man, did they cook. Their pasta was the best I’d ever eaten, and I ate an immense amount of it every time I sat down at their table.
On the final day of that retreat, I bought the caretaker’s cottage in which I’d stayed. It is one of the most beautiful places on the face of the planet, but that’s not why I bought it. I bought it because the idea of eating Giovanna and Wanda’s food on a semi-regular basis was irresistible. Remembering that momentous decision—and acknowledging the reality that a 175-year-old cottage in what is basically the middle of nowhere in the Sicilian countryside was in my possession because I loved the pasta I could get there—made me realize something rather shocking:
Food doesn’t just make me happy. Since my mom went to work at Ma Maison when I was twenty-two years old, every major decision I’ve made and most key events in my life have revolved around food and drink as surely as the earth revolves around the sun. Whatever definition of myself I’ve managed to stumble into, it is unquestionably connected to what I have eaten or drunk.
At various times in my life, I’ve fallen in love, or thought I had, while eating sushi, homemade prune ice cream, and Tex-Mex. Thinking back on the women I fell for, I can’t always explain what it is I fell in love with, but I do know what I was eating when the lightning struck.
The same goes for the gory finales to most of those relationships. I’ve had my heart broken over tapas. I’ve been dumped while chewing on a roasted chicken (and to make it worse, I did the roasting).
In my thirties, I made the decision—over oysters, mignonette sauce, and champagne—to blow up my life, quit my reasonably high-powered job in book publishing, and move to the south of France for a year to write a book and, well, to live. My thought process was, in essence: Why am I wasting my life? I want to eat oysters and drink champagne in France as often as possible while I can still appreciate it. At the time, I would have moved anywhere for a year if I could have had mignonette sauce several times a week.
I meet a few times a year with a group of my closest friends. We call ourselves the Martini Brothers because our main bonding experience is the imbibing of that revered beverage.
I arrange dinners (or beg to be invited if those dinners are already arranged) geared around wine, almost always red; I spend too much money on the stuff, and I love talking about it. It’s possible that the happiest I’ve ever been—the closest I’ve ever gotten to a spiritual feeling—has been sitting in the cave of a great Burgundy winemaker, Laurent Ponsot, eating cold chicken and sipping (okay, swigging) Monsieur Ponsot’s superb juice. The friends who were with me periodically remark that they have never seen anyone quite as content as I was for those few hours.
It is not an accident, I am sure, that my girlfriend of two-plus decades is a literary agent whose specialty is food books. One of the top agents in the country for food writers and chefs, her first food client was my mom, who in turn led her to such clients as Maida Heatter, Nancy Silverton, and Suzanne Goin, legends all in the food world.
I still work in publishing and one of the many things I do is edit cookbooks.
I also produce television shows and movies, and the first unscripted TV series I had on the air was a cooking show on the Food Network.
Many of the best times I can recall involve cooking and feeding people, or having other people cooking for and feeding me. I have learned—and am still learning—about the true nature of my relationships with people, including my family, because of our relationships to food.
Food and drink are central to my life and they have been for a long, long time. But until these conversations with my mother, I have never really understood why.
The conversations began a process of understanding.
I’m not exactly sure when I realized what I was going to do with my knowledge, or with the perfect menu I’d managed to drag out of my mom. But when I did come to the realization, it seemed right and natural.
I decided that I was going to cook all of my mother’s favorite foods and meals. I’d cook with and learn from her but would also cook with and learn from others, so I could attempt to master the techniques she valued and understood so well and attempt to master the things I valued but of which I had zero understanding.
And once I did, I would make her perfect dinner, not just for her but also for the people she valued and who valued her, the people who’d taught her and shaped her taste and molded her and, by extension, helped mold me.
I was going to learn exactly what made it all work. And what it all meant. Not just the food and drink, but other things as well. I was certain there was a connection between food and relationships and family and personal history. I just needed to find out what it was.
I was going to try to make a whole bunch of people—including myself—happy.
I was determined to find some kind of purpose while deciphering a few of the eternal mysteries that lie within the seemingly simple act of following a recipe and preparing a meal.
In the process, I was hoping to find some definition.
And, if I was lucky, some comfort.