This piece was originally published in The Inquisitive Eater Anthology, which you can now purchase online.
Enough
I was eighteen, and pregnant. I learned to bake and roast and braise and simmer. I loved cooking so much that I even tried to make tripe, but threw it out when the apartment began to smell like hay. Ditto sweetbreads. I would not have known who I was without a spoon in my hand. But at 76, the only thing I want to make now is popcorn. Organic popcorn cooked in coconut oil. When it’s all done and in a bowl, I sprinkle salt and brewers’ yeast. It is so good you don’t need butter.
I have made 57 Thanksgiving dinners in my day, give or take. It has always been my favorite holiday. I scoffed at one woman who cooked her entire Thanksgiving meal in July, put it in her freezer, and defrosted it the day before her guests arrived. I hooted at families who celebrated the holiday in restaurants. They were missing the whole point! Everyone cooking together, each with a specialty! Peeling and boiling rutabagas, steaming and peeling chestnuts for stuffing! All those sweet potatoes, the cranberry jelly, 30 people, twenty chairs! Three homemade pies baked at five a.m.! All those good smells! The occasional snits and frictions! Small children slipping under the table! Five dogs! Running out of butter!
We are eating out this year.
Morning
I’m tired. My stomach hurts. Too much coffee today and millions of cigarettes, but that’s life. The dogs are napping after their wild foray outside where it is spring, except it’s supposed to be winter. I’m depressed about being tired all the time until I notice the lighter is right there on the table and I don’t have to get up to light my next cigarette on the stove. I can use the coffee cup from yesterday as an ashtray which is one of my disgusting habits, cups everywhere with butts soaked in black coffee. What is wrong with me? Last night Ted brought Chinese food home and I wasn’t going to eat it because he’s dead broke, but this was duck and I kept looking at the dark strips and finally he offered me a few which I ate. Then I wanted all of it plus the water chestnuts and broccoli so when he went outside I gobbled more. He would have been happy to give it to me but sometimes it is more interesting to feel as if you’re doing something bad.
Supper With Dogs
Last night I made my new favorite thing, a bun stuffed with ham and muenster, tossed into hot butter in a pan, pressed down until it smokes, turned over, covered, and cooked a minute or two longer. The almost burned roll is delicious, and it crunches, and muenster melts in a lovely stringy way. I only made one, because Daphne got hold of the muenster. I love Daphne, and she loves me, but she is a dog who loves cheese, and I can tell when her wild wakes up, so I put away the ham, leave her with the cheese, and sit down in my big chair to read the paper. Soon all 80 pounds of Daphne climbs into my lap. She settles herself, four legs jabbing into my stomach like pogo sticks until she is comfortable. Then Sadie, a mere 30 pounds joins us. Somehow, we all fit, although the paper is on the floor where I can’t reach it. We sit still, like something a child put together while telling herself a story until my legs go numb, and I begin the arduous process of trying to stand up, letting 110 pounds of dog slide softly to the floor.
Abigail Thomas is the mother of four and the grandmother of twelve. Her most recent book, a memoir, is What Comes Next and How To Like It.
Featured image via Wikimedia Commons.
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