Out of the Frying Pan
I crank open the can of whole tomatoes, bend back the lid and fish out one of the veiny blobs. As I plunge my thumb into the flesh, a stream of juice shoots across the counter and oozes down the tea kettle. I wipe my hands and turn off the news. Not now. At least for a while.
I admire my aim, though kitchen paintball has never been a goal. Nor has kitchen anything.
See, I spent much of my life avoiding what I viewed as the constraints of domesticity. Growing up, it seemed to me women were banished to cook and clean while men got to do as they pleased until they were fed. Not me! I cried, kicking over my Easy-Bake Oven. I vowed I would not let any man or any pan rein in my precious freedom. (To do what, was never entirely clear.)
Once out on my own, food meant little to me. In my first apartment, I used the oven and kitchen cupboards to store books. Occasionally someone fed me; working in restaurants filled in the gaps. To my mind, I had witty repartee and café companions to nourish me.
In my 30s, however, I watched as many of my friends paired off, married, bought homes and even had kids. What could possibly be more enticing on the other side of that kitchen door than going to hear bands and hanging out in bars? I even started detecting a shift in some of the cads and curs I dated. I recall one conversation with what I had assumed to be an evolved and enlightened man I’d been cavorting with for a few weeks. Facing the prospect of dinner together one night, he asked me what I liked to cook. I think I actually laughed out loud. My nickname at the time was Action Girl. Did that sound like someone who owned a potholder? I could see he was disappointed. “Huh,” he said. “I thought that would be part of your repertoire.”
My repertoire? I didn’t know I was supposed to have a repertoire, but if I did, I can assure you cooking would’ve been the last thing it would include, and I told him as much. If I remember correctly, he returned to and married his former girlfriend not long thereafter. Please take me back. It’s scary out there!
Fortunately, when my own settling-down time came, it was with a man who loved to cook and thought my churlishness and kitchen cluelessness were charming. He introduced me to whacky concepts like having people over for dinner, hosting family holidays, and provisioning – which is what we called our Saturday marketing around Portland. For 20 years our home was filled with good smells and good cheer. And while I generally only ventured into the kitchen to grab a beer, I started to see the appeal. Food – and feeding people – could be fun.
Which I why, when I moved into my new place last summer, I vowed I would embrace the skills I had so long shunned. I’d been on my own for seven years, with no ability to host anyone for so much as a glass of water, and I wanted my new home to also be a hearth. I had several friends over for trial-run dinners – no one barfed – which gave me the courage to host a family holiday brunch for 12 and to not fall apart when four had to cancel at the last minute. Still, you couldn’t exactly say the kitchen was my happy place. More that we tolerated each other.
Which is why standing here on the third anniversary of my former husband’s death is not a natural choice for me. But time has been a vortex since he died. Last year, I got the date wrong. The year before that, I couldn’t remember if it had been one or two years. I wanted to do something more intentional this time around. I felt the best way I could honor his memory was to stand at the stove.
Once the tomatoes are crushed by hand (the way he always insisted on doing for his sauce), I skewer six anchovy fillets from the can and arrange them on top of the tomatoes. The air is already redolent with the mandolined garlic piled on the cutting board, and once I shove the whole mess into the oven to roast, the place starts to fill with a not-unpleasant stink. And just like that, I’m cooking.
I reluctantly turn the news back on. You can only shut out the world for so long. With all the terror and trouble raining down, even on Maine’s own streets, these personal griefs can seem puny, even self-indulgent. But is it not our loves and losses that ultimately bind us together and give us the courage to act?
That is something I don’t mind adding into my repertoire.
Many thanks to Amy MacDonald for her Maine Matters Substack that helps keep concerned citizens apprised of political news, resistance events, and actions we can take. No culinary skills required.
