Bittersweet, but Mostly Bitter

Some deaths are slow and especially painful; this one took a while.

I don't know why I love to cook so much. Every foreign dish I master at home is a trip I'd like to take. Every new technique opens a new door. Every meal has been my way of hugging my family and telling them I love them. But if that isn't their love language, isn't it time to stop? 

I remember the days when I would make homemade tortillas from organic masa, eggs, and a fresh salsa for breakfast. Dinners were elaborate: fresh pasta from scratch, duck legs braised in red wine, roast chicken with quinoa and zucchini. I made all my bread from scratch from a starter. Ice cream made a weekly appearance and the flavors varied from the requisite chocolate, vanilla, and fruit flavors to cardamom banana and mint chocolate. I poured my love into my family through the kitchen.

It didn't stop there! I became obsessed with the idea of backyard chickens to provide my family with the best quality eggs. I wanted a garden in spite of my black  thumb. I wanted bee hives and a milking goat- though I know now you never have just one, but whatever, it was a dream. 

I still believe there's something beautiful about that. But what do you do when your family really doesn't appreciate it, or even like it that much? When you plan what you thought was a simple dinner and it took hours after all, when there is a huge mess in the kitchen, and when your family would rather season the meat with whatever their preferred combination of ketchup, BBQ sauce, and kekap manis??? Well? What then?

My last folly was a Persian meal. I had made it with friends after driving everywhere to find the barberries for the rice. The chicken was marinated in near lethal quantities of onion and then barbecued, and the rice was beautiful and tart. I was so sure my family would love it- but once I brought it out, of course the unholy trinity of BBQ sauce, ketchup, and parmesan cheese also made it to the table. What was I doing? If they don't care about what I put into the meal, am I just trying to force them into accepting something for my sake?

Not too long after the Persian debacle, I made a nice, safe meal of Chinese flavored rice noodles. My son, who loves Pad See Ew maybe more than just about anything else, wanted to know why I hadn't used the same sauce. I said these were supposed to taste Chinese, not Thai. And when he mixed up his own combination of black soy sauce and Golden Mountain sauce and drizzled the whole thing over his noodles, I was devastated. I wanted to cry, but it was as if I faced a religious difference between me and my husband and kids. 

My husband defended my son. "What is different," he asked, "between adding some sauce and seasoning with salt and pepper? Isn't he just seasoning it to taste?"

​And I bet my husband is right. But I QUIT!!!!