I stepped into the room with urgency: straining, appraising the scene, letting an electric mixture of panic and adrenaline soak my nerves. Smoke was unfurling around the room in dense, hot, steamy clouds. The white lights set the room in an uncomfortable fluorescent glow, as if a spotlight were trained on us all. There was a constant metallic clanking as tools were used and discarded, alarms shrieked in displeasure, and I spoke in a calm and clear voice above the maelstrom of movement, announcing my arrival with the question, “How can I help?” I was ushered to a small workstation and handed the necessary equipment. My assignment arrived in scalding glass: to tile, in marshmallow, a sweet potato pie.
Thanksgiving
Not all kitchens are war scenes. Some are clean and meticulous, some are haphazard but cheerful, some are casual and vibrant, but on Thanksgiving Day all kitchens become food factories and butcheries. My grandmother’s is no exception. The women in my family are a bastion of strength and feminism, and yet, with the exception of wielding the carving knife, we perform all of the culinary duties. Maybe it’s because on the most ancient of American holidays we conform to heteronormative roles, maybe it’s because we enjoy cooking the most, or maybe it’s because if you want something done well, you do it yourself. Our team consisted of the following: my grandmother, a Wellesley graduate, family commander-in-chief, and chef extraordinaire; my mother, owner of prestigious undergraduate and law degrees, full time parent by choice, and responsible for two[1] Ivy League acceptances; and myself, a liberal, feminist, Brown student, with a labored sense of purpose and language (see use of “maelstrom”). We could not be more qualified to run a kitchen, or the world.
Our kitchen operated in machine-like fashion. We sliced, scraped, and stirred on schedule. No recipe or dietary restriction was too daunting for our fearless trio. We deftly adopted an in-law’s sweet potato pie. We carefully cultivated simple choices for little picky eaters. We created low-sodium options, low-acidic sauces, and lactose-free alternatives. We produced the most glorious Thanksgiving spread that anyone has ever seen. Or at least, that feast will be preserved in my memory that way: a sweet potato pie the color of sunrise with cartoon-like wisps of steam hovering above it. And us three, culinary superheroes, ready to fight one platter at a time.
When I cook for myself in the box-like kitchen of my dorm room, I mimic their motions. I stir pots and toss saucepans using my mother’s hands; I borrow my grandmother’s fingers to hold and chop. I examine chicken with their eyes to see if it’s cooked all the way through. I taste sauces through their lips. When I do something right I feel pride swell inside my chest. Pride and cooking are inextricably linked. There’s a sense of satisfaction in providing your own sustenance. Beyond that I feel pride because I can call my mother and say “You won’t believe what I just made. I wish you were here to see try it.” I may be twenty, but I will never be too old for my pride to balloon with the thought of my mother and grandmother eating something that I’ve made.
My memories may be coated in rose-colored varnish, but I relish in knowing that I have learned from masters, and if I close my eyes I can watch them turning eggs in a pan.
[1] Soon to be three.