The Internet can be a cruel and unusual abyss of half-cocked opinions and bargain basement analysis, especially when it comes to Black wom...
1 Pot Meals?
The onions and garlic were chopped, olive oil in the pan. I added those first 2 ingredients to the pan and savored the aroma. It reminded me of the joy of creating in our kitchen, many things beginning with onion and garlic. Many times I hadn’t added anything to the pan before I’d hear “Mommy, that smells good!” His appetite was whet for whatever I made, even on days when I wasn’t so sure I smelled what the rock was cooking. If i made it, he loved it. I’d always tease and say one day I was going to sautee some dirt and serve it to see if it got the same response. Part of me is sure his admittedly indiscriminate man-tastes would have devoured that bowl of dirt the same way he did my spaghetti, the other part of me is sure that he tasted the love and was appreciative.
It’s funny. I don’t mind sleeping alone. I don’t mind waking up alone. I don’t mind the time between waking and returning to bed. Somehow, it’s the cooking for one that disturbs me. It’s making me lazy, shrinking my tastes some and OK’ing the throw together meals I hated when Ma was tired or it was time to restock the fridge. I’m treating myself like it’s always time to restock because I don’t know how to truly cook for one. Besides, how many nights and lunches can you eat the same meal? It’s officially 4 for me, but it’s a stretch, killing me on that 4th occasion sitting down to the same meal. I try to break it up, cook 2 or 3 different meals at once so I can shake it up: this for dinner, that for lunch and then flip it. Still, I’m as bored as smart kids in regular paced classes, and start dreaming of Thai goodness or the Michelle Melt (minus the melt, of course) at my favorite burger joint, Good Stuff Eatery. I can all but taste the crispy noodles and vegetables at the Vietnamese spot, or the sushi when it was still good at Sushi Jin. Sometimes I fly out in search of my favorites only to be disappointed in how average it all seems right then. In truth, what I really want is to break bread with someone who loved the bread from the first sign of me breaking the flour out of the freezer.
One day, not only will I have a table, but I’ll be ready to allow someone to sit at it and break bread that I baked from scratch with love and good intentions.
Watch me move.