Crazy in the Kitchen (16 page)

FOOD FIGHTS

There is something about watching another person rinsing the spinach in the sink, or chopping an onion, or tearing the lettuce
that brings out the worst in people, that brings out the worst in you.

"There's still sand on those leaves," you say, the scorn in your voice perceptible. You imagine the sauteed spinach with garlic,
gritty with dirt, the dinner ruined utterly, the day bankrupt thereby. You have convinced yourself that a good dinner is very
important, the most important event in your day. More important, even— to judge by the way you behave— than the feelings of
family members who partake of that dinner.

Still, you cannot control yourself.

"There's still sand on those leaves, I said. Will you please give them another rinse?"

And you think that if he doesn't realize the spinach needs another wash, he mustn't see anything truly important in this world—
a beautiful flower on a spring morning; a sunset across a wide expanse of icy bay.

You remember the teachings of Zen Buddhism: the way you do one thing is the way you do everything. And so you are right to
conclude that the way he washes spinach is the way he does everything else in the world. His way of washing spinach provides
you with a window into his soul. (You remember the teachings of Zen Buddhism about acceptance. You tell yourself they do not
apply here. For you cannot, no, you cannot accept the slipshod way he prepares food. Food must be respected, you tell yourself.
That is the Zen Buddhist way.)

You reflect that your way of thinking that his way of washing the spinach provides you with a window into his soul also provides
you with a window into yours. But you want to think about his soul, not yours. You think he should do something to change
his soul, not that you must change yours.

But perhaps you can accept the way he is. Or accept the way you are. But then there would be no fighting in the kitchen, no
drama. Then the kitchen would be a relaxed and serene place. Which you seem not to want it to be.

"The recipe says to mince the onions, not to chop them," you scold. You hate the sound of your voice. But you think, "That
man is not a detail man; that man takes shortcuts. Which is why his Christmas packages look sloppy; which is why the kitchen
faucet still drips; which is why the basement is still a mess; which is why the meals he cooks are good but not masterpieces."
(You should be grateful, you know, that he cooks. Still, you want him to cook for you not the way he cooks for you, but the
way you cook for him. Perfectly.)

When you think these things, and you cannot stop yourself from thinking these things, you hate yourself. You realize that
beneath all that superficial niceness the people in your public life see— your students, the people who read your books— a
truly evil person is lurking. A shadow self hides in the kitchen; she lunges after her prey like a wolverine. The people in
your public life never see this self, would be shocked to know she existed. For this self lives at home And her favorite place
is the kitchen.

Often, when she appears, you blame your mother. You blame the way she fought with your grandmother in the kitchen. You tell
yourself you have no role model for civilized kitchen behavior. And so you excuse yourself. You are, after all, your mother's
daughter. Remembering the way your mother behaved in the kitchen makes you feel better, absolves you of responsibility for
the diabolical person you are.

But this doesn't make you happy. You realize you can't blame her, you're too old. You realize that you're mean and petty,
that your values suck, that you ruin everything, that you put what is not important— perfectly rinsed spinach, perfectly minced
onion, perfectly torn lettuce leaves— before what
is
important— your marriage, your relationship with your husband, your capacity for tolerance, your serenity.

You remind yourself that you are lucky that you are married to someone who cooks and cleans. That you are married to someone
who makes you dinner (sometimes, even, a spectacular dinner— a tiny rack of lamb on your birthday a few years before, crusted
with champagne mustard and fresh bread crumbs in a Merlot sauce, yum, yum). That he always cooks for you on the nights you
work late and come home too exhausted to cook (pumpkin ravioli with a sweetened butter-and-truffle-oil sauce, and strips of
sage).

You vow that the next time you see your husband fucking up in the kitchen, assassinating the carrots, say, or massacring the
eggplant, you won't utter a word. You'll find your center. Breathe in. Breathe out. You'll accept what he's doing. You'll
prove to yourself that your meditation practice is helping, that your therapy is working, and the next time you go to your
therapist, you'll thank her— they need that, therapists, some occasional positive feedback to balance all those hours of sitting
there and listening to lunatics like you.

You think that if you can keep your mouth shut, if you can control yourself and not spring across the kitchen to pull the
carrot out of his hand and tell him, "No, no, no, I said
mince,
not
dice,
and don't you know the difference after all these years?," then, one day, you can quit therapy. (And think of all the money
you'd save, and all the great new kitchen equipment you could buy— an Italian gelato machine; a stainless steel espresso maker;
a really gigantic pasta pot.)

On this particular evening, my husband and I are cooking a recipe of Marcella Hazan's. Nothing fancy. But splendid. Steaks
(pan sauteed), finished in a sauce of sweet and dry vermouth, garlic, tomato paste, and red pepper flakes, reduced to a shining
unctuous glaze; oven-roasted potatoes with rosemary;
insalata mista
with soft lettuces.

The salad is his responsibility.

My husband is working with the Boston lettuce at the sink. It's organic. Hydroponic. We're careful about what we eat. And
organic tastes better— not like a chemistry experiment.

We shop at Whole Foods. We spend a fortune. But we tell ourselves it's money well spent. Cooking is our hobby. We don't eat
out. We don't go to the theater. We can justify how much we spend on food if we shift some food expenses over to entertainment.

The lettuce we've bought comes with a little tail of roots in case you want to plant it instead of eat it. (We don't.) It
comes in its own little plastic house so that nothing can crush it as it makes its way from the farmer to your home. I am
grateful for the care that is taken with this lettuce. At least someone cares about doing something well these day.

I am chopping garlic. And he is preparing the lettuce. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him take the little root clump in
his fist to twist it free. But these roots must be cut away with a very sharp knife. And I know that if he continues, all
those lovely little lettuce leaves will be crushed and mangled. And I must stop this. At once.

"Stop that!" I shout. "You're supposed to cut the roots of the lettuce away, not wring its goddamned neck!"

I bound across the kitchen, butcher knife in hand, as if I am ready for assassination. I pull the lettuce away, rescue it.
I take it over to my work station to examine it. I am acting like the lettuce is one of our children, at risk from his father's
brutality.

"Jesus Christ," he says. "You could have told me nicely. I would have listened. You don't have to shout." But otherwise, he
says nothing. He is practicing self-control. And he is succeeding.

I am ashamed.

Ashamed, like the day I was cooking Brussels sprouts.

The Brussels sprouts.

I am the only person I know with a Brussels-sprout-shaped scar on my thigh. I will tell you how it happened, although it is
not a pretty story.

One day, I am cooking Brussels sprouts for dinner. Why I am cooking Brussels sprouts, that piss-tasting vegetable preferred
by the English, in an Italian American kitchen is because I am in my Anglomaniac period. (The Belgians believe that Roman
legions brought the Brussels sprout to Brussels. But I don't believe it. Unless they brought them there, and left them. I've
never found a recipe for Brussels sprouts in an Italian cookbook. And I've never seen one in Italy. Though I've been told
that if they're very, very young, and if you saute them in very hot oil till they go crisp, they're good. But I don't believe
it.)

Anyway, when I'm cooking these Brussels sprouts, I'm writing about Virginia Woolf and going to England a lot. As I said, I'm
in my Anglomaniac period, which lasts five years. I am cooking Brussels sprouts and other English things like trifle, and
bangers and mash. To admit that I cooked bangers and mash is difficult. I persuaded myself that these were good things to
eat, that Virginia Woolf ate these things, and that, in eating them, I was growing closer to her, understanding her.

I didn't consider that if Virginia Woolf knew me, knew where my people came from, knew what they had done for a living, knew
how I had supported myself with strange odd-jobs throughout my adolescence, knew that we lived in a tenement, she certainly
wouldn't have invited me to her parties, no matter how smart I was.

In 1908, Virginia Woolf travels to Italy and keeps a diary. She has nothing much to say about Italy— about Milan, Florence,
Assisi, Perugia, Siena. She likes the colors of the houses. She remarks that in Italy you are constantly reminded of history.
She writes a bit about a fresco she sees. She says that she thinks the priests in Siena are handsome. She says nothing about
the food; she doesn't eat pasta. (About this, I should have been suspicious. To travel to Italy, and not mention the food.
And not eat pasta.)

She compares everything she sees to England, and finds it wanting. The strangeness of this place, of the people's ways, disorients
her. Except for the occasional walk, or a bit of sightseeing, she spends most of her time in her room, reading the novels
of Thomas Hardy and George Meredith at a furious pace, to keep herself from realizing where she is, to remind herself of England,
the superiority of its landscape, of its civilization.

In Florence, she meets an Anglo-Italian countess, a woman reputed to be extremely intelligent. After a brief meeting, Woolf
decides that, no, this woman isn't intelligent; her reputation for learning is unfounded. She is a peasant in disguise, and
therefore loathsome, as peasants are. She behaves like a child. Oh, the countess can feel, Woolf concedes. But the feelings
of Italians always becloud their reason.

About the Brussels sprouts.

The night that I am cooking them, I plan on dressing them simply, with a little brown butter, caraway seeds, salt, and pepper.
They will accompany the pork chops I'm sauteing and finishing in the oven.

But while they're boiling, my husband and I start fighting. We fought a lot in those days, though I can't remember what this
fight was about. Probably about nothing important, because we agree about everything that is important— politics, and the
importance of family, and what to eat for dinner.

On this night, I get so angry that I pick up the pot of Brussels sprouts, and fling the Brussels sprouts (boiling water and
all) at him. I don't hit him, thank goodness. But one waterlogged sprout lands on my thigh and burns me.

The burn heals in time, of course. But the scar is still there. And it is shaped exactly like a Brussels sprout. So that each
time I undress, each time I bathe, there it is, that Brussels sprout scar, to remind me that I am a dangerous woman, and that
the kitchen is a hazardous place for me.

On the night I yell at my husband for how he desecrates the lettuce, I apologize. We are both trying (and usually, now, successfully)
not to fight. We are married nearly forty years, and we should know how to get along, how to have a serene and joyful life
together. (I don't say, but think, we should figure this out before one of us dies.)

My husband accepts my apology. "I'm used to it," he says. "You're always crazy in the kitchen." And then, because he's taking
Italian lessons, is trying to be Italian Italian, he says "pazza nella cucina."

"Crazy in the kitchen." The words come back. I admit that, yes, I am crazy in the kitchen. And one day, I hope I will not
be. I hope that I can become, in the kitchen, the person I am in other places. I can work on this, I know. Can work on it
the way I work on perfecting my breads, my muffins, my minestrones, my pastas, my risotto. With care, attention, reverence,
and discipline.

And though I know that the voice that derided him about the way he handled the lettuce was not my voice, but my mother's voice,
I know that it is my voice too, and that it is too late in my life to use my mother as an excuse. I know I act this way, this
crazy-in-the-kitchen way, because I want the food I make to be perfect. With each perfect meal I make, I can undo the past.
Undo that my mother couldn't feed me, undo her fury at my grandmother. Undo my father's violence. Undo my ancestors' history.

I act as if, through this alchemy at the stove, I can erase my past instead of reliving it. But reliving it I am— all the
fury of it, all the battles, all the despair. And must stop reliving it.