Hi,
I’ve been doing a lot of cooking lately. It’s been a while since I’ve done something more with my hands besides type, and so as I chop, mash, grind, boil, and sauté, I feel like I’m crafting and DIY’ing something I can taste.
Cooking puts me in a different headspace, too. For some reason, I feel old-timey. I don’t have a kitchen window, but if I did, I imagine myself looking out of it, across the distance of a grassy prairie, waiting for any hungry wanderer to reach my door. Can I help you, I’d say. They’d tell me about how they’re trying to get to two ranches over, and might I have some water to spare because they’re parched. I’d barter water for an objective opinion on the dish I just made. Go on, I’d say, you’ll never see me again — what do you think? They’d tell me, drink water, and agree to carry some mashed potatoes with leeks to the next ranch over for the Ingalls kids. Pity they don’t have a microwave to give them a quick zap.
Yeah, I don’t trust my family to tell me the truth about my cooking. I dunno… happy wife, happy life, or some such nonsense.
It’s Mother’s Day this weekend, and if the day were truly for mothers, as opposed to for kids who scheme up how they want to celebrate mom, I would spend it alone in my kitchen, surrounded by allll the ingredients I need to recreate my own mother’s meals. And father’s too, actually. He expanded her repertoire and likes to joke that she once gave two menu items to choose from: papas con chorizo, and chorizo con papas.
In my childhood home, cooking was clockwork. And if you wanted a snack, you’d better be prepared to bite into an onion, because everything was an ingredient. I remember how much I wanted the brightly packaged stuff at other people’s houses. Bottles, trays, boxes, sigh! My brother and I felt so understood when we watched Eddie Murphy spilling burger trauma on TV so long ago. There he was killing us softly, just telling our whole lives with his words, oh killing us softly… lah ah ah ah ah!
I digress. Like Eddie, I realize how good a cook my mom is. It’s why, while I can still call and ask for recipes, I’m collecting and making them. One inevitable day, when I’m looking at her picture and playing her voicemails, I’ll have the warmth of her tastes to comfort my heart and belly as well. I thought of this acutely when Japanese Breakfast was in studio recently (see below). Singer Michelle Yauner’s wrenching memoir, Crying in H Mart, asks, “Am I even Korean anymore if there’s no one left to call and ask which brand of seaweed to buy?”
I guess I’m preparing to have all the answers.
Here’s another answer — wonder what to give your mom or mother figure for Mother’s Day? Grab a pen and pad, sit with her, ask her what her favorite dish is to make, write it down, then ask lots of questions — including when the last time she made it was. She’ll really appreciate it. Bonus points if you make it and share.
Slicin' and dicin',
Connie Alvarez
Your KCRW Insider
P.S. If you’re having trouble calling up KCRW with your Google Smart speaker, try saying “KCRW Radio” — we’re actively working on this bug. Do it now so you don't miss Good Food's Mother's Day episode this weekend.