TV dinners, Costco chicken, and Vegan cookbooks: Welcome to My Kitchen

These are the smells of my childhood kitchen: 

bread toasting in the pan as it grips on to my gooey "girled" cheese,
popping the tab of an Orange Fanta and the syrupy spray tickling my nose,
the bubbling, burning edges of a brownie in my favorite Swanson microwave dinner,
and the crisp simplicity of cold milk in a morning bowl of Rice Chex.

My favorite meal, mostly because of the brownie. But I happily ate every version of these dinners.

Note the commonality? My childhood foods were not notable for their complexity. Although never evidenced by my husky kiddie physique, I'm told I was a very picky eater.  It was me, backing up traffic at the McDonalds drive-thru because I ordered a plain hamburger. It was me, sulking at the dinner table because there was sauce- SAUCE!- on my plate. And I remember many hours spent moaning behind a pile of green peas, or contorting my face into its most disapproving state because the smell of the stew offended me. I was a food xenophobic with a big lack of gratitude.

Sweet sweet simplicity.

Not only was I fussy, but I had a mean independent streak and a burgeoning feminist righteousness. Kitchen work would not be for me, I decided, and so could not be bothered to learn to cook a proper meal. My mom tried- plenty of times- to cheerfully encourage me. My recollection is that we both pretended to be having fun, but anything would have been more fun than working beside my quickly developing scowl. I was left wondering why all the bother when you can just buy take-out? I had better things to do than think about food.

My mother was not only raising two children, but running her own business. Like everyone pledging allegiance to the processed foods of the 1980s, she lifted some of the burden through the magic of convenience food... TV dinners, frozen taquitos, pre-shredded cheese, packets of taco seasoning. This was a time before the words BPA and high fructose corn syrup. When I was eight years old, we moved into a long, ranch-style home, with her business set up at the far end. This meant she was out of ear shot, so my older brother and I were left to mend our own fights and free to microwave our own meals. In my mind, food came frozen and pre-packaged.

It was a game changer when these babies arrived. I could eat them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And I did.

My father's level of kitchen intimacy consisted of walking through it, or maybe reaching into the fridge for swiss cheese. He travelled often when we were kids, and no one ever thought to ask him to make something. If my mom was out of town or away for the evening, he would chuckle in relief when I offered to dial Little Caesars pizza. I knew the phone number by heart; feeling proud for having taken care of dinner for my family.

*To be clear: my parents did the best they could with what was known at the time and the norms of the day. And they were great parents. What we ate was not different to me than what my friends ate (except for one weird family who ate seaweed and jicama!). My mom now writes a food blog, and we talk recipes all the time. My dad is not only amazing at the grill but willing to eat my tofu. ;-)

Remember when it was square pizza? And they gave you two! Oh, I salivate just looking at this.

And thus, my level of comfort in the kitchen and nostalgia for it is... meager. But still, I have to eat. So, when in our early months of courtship my future wife rolled out homemade spaghetti and meatballs, I was awe-struck. And when she whipped up a dessert crepe from scratch and asked if I preferred lemon sugar or apple cinnamon, I felt special. And when she said, "I'll take care of it, you just sit and have a glass of wine," I knew she was the one. Yes, she won me through my stomach. It was, as you see, primed for the taking.

Ten pounds later and one year before we were married, our parents flew out to meet for the first time. They sat around our dinner table from opposite sides of the country and opposite sides of the food spectrum. Over a meal of roasted chicken and a bunch of other stuff that I can't remember but I'm sure my wife does, we laughed at how her side had spent the entire day talking about the chicken on our plates... where to get the chicken, how many pounds needed, how to season it, how long to roast it, it's starting to get juicy, let me take a look at that chicken, wow look at that chicken, oh boy here comes the chicken, chicken chicken chicken. And how, about an hour before dinner, my side realized that we'd need some food, and offered to grab some pre-cooked chicken at Costco. Not that we didn't want a nice meal, but who says we had to spend time making it?

*Also on this night my sister-in-law asked us to name our childhood comfort food. I sat quietly, hoping the topic would change before my turn came around (it never changes from food, I would come to learn). So, in front of my new, very food-centric in-laws and my own mother whose kitchen pride was on the line, I... uh... couldn't think of anything. "Kraft mac and cheese?" I finally guessed, but it was too late. My status as a bottom-feeder in the food world was cemented.

(For the record, my comfort food is nachos, which Nug honed in on quicker than me. Last month when W was out of town, she looked up at me with confidence and asked, "nachos for dinner?")

Mmm, as comfy as pajamas

Things went smoothly after that for a long while: W cooked and I grew to be a plump happy wife. When she was unable to cook, we ate out. When I was on my own, I nuked a frozen dinner-- Amy's Organic, because now I knew a thing or two about nutrition, ha! Then, of course, my food co-dependency was usurped by the arrival of our two dependents. Nug and Cookie, kids at the 95th percentile on the growth scales. Kids with appetites. Kids who think I can feed them. And while I outgrew my food fussiness, the lack of skills and intuition never improved.

Nug, May 2012

One day, when Nug was almost two, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I was ready to find some control in the kitchen. And if I was going to learn, I was going to go as healthy as possible. I devoured vegan cooking blogs, bags of spinach, and sugar-free treats made from beans. I felt great, lost weight, pooped daily, and handed Nug snacks of roasted chickpeas. But, if I'm honest, everyone kind of hated it. There was no comfort in my cooking: W straight up refused to live a life without olive oil, and Nug was often hungrier than I'd anticipate. So I adjusted. And I cried a lot, loading every dish with some sort of expectation. Eventually over time, learning to add judicious amounts of butter or bacon or flair, learning to critique a meal without ego, I sort of managed to find a decent home in the kitchen. And since I still cannot manage to sit and learn from anyone without a scowl, it will always be a work in progress.

Now I wonder, what food memories will my kids hold? What will my kitchen legacy be?
That unless I'm in the kitchen to pour a glass of wine, I'm frustrated and exhausted?
That in the course of a days chopping, cooking, serving, and cleaning, I hardly leave the kitchen to play with them?
That the amount of time spent on a meal doesn't necessarily mean it's going to taste better?
Or... maybe,
do they see my determination?
Do they see that good food doesn't come easy?
Do they see that I'm not afraid to pick myself up, each and every day, and try again?
Do they see that I'm trying my best?

I hope it's the latter. Last week Nug told me, "it's a good thing you are a nurse. Because you know how many treats to give us, and how to keep our bodies healthy." And let's not forget she told the pediatrician that her favorite foods are tofu, beans, and rice. For now, that's tasty enough for me.

My Fit4Mom Body Back program has helped me see the wisdom of meal planning. 

Food prep on Sundays

Roasted cauli and fried tofu done in the early am, while the kids are still sleepy enough to be harmonious.