Pandemic Cooking Is Turning Me Into My Parents
I’m baking cookies and putting them directly into the freezer — the same thing I’ve always teased my mom for doing.
Crack. Whisk. Add sugar, maybe.
I’m looking up freezing instructions for foods, like eggs, I never thought I’d freeze. I hardly froze anything before — it was a little rebellion against my Midwest upbringing. In Iowa, practicality usually wins over sex appeal when it comes to food, and pulling years-old casserole out of the freezer for dinner is commonplace. I preferred frequent trips to the store where I bought mostly fresh veggies and small quantities of meat (also a mini-rebellion in my meat-loving state). Now, I’m a freezer architect building towers of peas and bread and cookies — something I always teased my mom for freezing because she pulls them out of the oven and plops them directly in the freezer, never giving them the chance to live the life of a regular cookie.
Hoard, just a little bit.
I found a box of rice at my parent’s house that expired in the 1970s, which, for one thing, means they packed it in a box and moved it four times after it was already expired. When I help with cooking Sunday night dinner at their house, I start by raiding their spice drawer for spices that expired years ago, chucking them out as they gently protest. This week while organizing my pantry, I couldn’t bring myself to throw away the expired, bougie chickpea pasta I bought years ago. Although I usually think I want that kind of stuff when I’m shopping, it’s the classic comfort foods I grew up with, like spaghetti, I seem to go through first.
Give back, quietly.
Every time I place an order of food, I feel an intense pang of guilt for how fortunate I am and make a modest donation to a local nonprofit that delivers meals to those in need. I don’t tell my family about the donations because it would feel like bragging. In the Midwest, we rarely brag. We’re suspicious of people who do, and generally unimpressed with words. Quiet action is held in high esteem. Many people I know wince at the word “thanks” even under normal circumstances, including my parents. My mom has delivered “AniMeals” — pet food to those in need — for years. It didn’t involve much contact to begin with, and now it’s done in silence as she drops items off on doorsteps. I think she prefers it — no need to nod, slightly uncomfortably, in response to a “thanks.”
Eat the tomatoes.
I sent pictures of the homemade naan I made to my parents. Instead of taking pictures of fancy restaurant food, I get a kick out of sharing humble food, made especially humble by my inexperience and its weird texture. I eat it anyway because I’m starting to appreciate two principles my parents have always followed — never waste, and if it’s not going to kill immediately, it’s fine. I once lectured my dad about eating canned tomatoes, telling him about an article I read that said the acidity causes chemicals from the can to leach into the food. He shrugged and continued happily making his homemade salsa. After 70 years on the planet, he understands the difference between immediate dangers and frivolous dangers. The tomatoes weren’t going to kill him that day, and he wasn’t about to waste them. He opened even more cans and made extra, carefully storing half in the freezer.
Don’t question the sugar.
When I was younger, my dad and I used to make soft-boiled eggs, which are nearly raw eggs served in cute little cups and eaten with a spoon. They were delicious, but I don’t think they’re legal now. My parent’s assessment of what’s healthy and what’s not has always been a little bit questionable, like their requirement that I finish my deli meat on white bread to gain access to dessert. They weren’t monsters — they switched to whole wheat in the 90s. They rolled their eyes — just a little bit — as I got older and tried various health kicks, eschewing sugar or bread for periods of time. Now, I keep a careful inventory of how much sugar and bread is on hand, appreciating every little bit. Yesterday, I had the ill-advised idea to make cookies with less sugar than my mom’s recipe called for. I was trying to make them healthier, but they turned out a bit dull, like the flavored sparkling water version of cookies. I won’t let them go to waste, though.
