i love cooking because my mom didn't
how my working mom shaped my relationship with food
I wasn't really interested in cooking until my mid-20s. In high school, I balked at Home Economics class and opted for Keyboarding because, duhhh, I was going to be a career woman. And career women could afford to eat out all the time—just like my mom did.
But in college, I started singing that "food at home" tune when I realized eating out all the time ate up the little money I was making.
But when did I start to love cooking? I hadn't considered it until I took on Kathy Gunst's writing prompt and did a little digging.
"Tell me a story about what dish best represents you—your childhood, your family."
My response was a short essay —
"Can I have this for my Barbies?" I asked, holding a cheese-wrapped plastic pizza saver in my hand.
"I'm gonna use it as a table!" I exclaimed, proud of my young ingenuity.
With a silent nod of approval, I tilted my head back and licked the gooey residuals off each one of the "legs" before setting it aside for Christie, Barbie, and Steve.
It was pizza night on Bangor Avenue in Lubbock, Texas, and we'd just been blessed with a delivery: two pies—one Supreme and one Meat Lovers—and a three-liter of Coke. Unofficially, the Supreme was for us: the girls—my sister, Tasha, my mom, and me. Alvin, my stepdad, was the meat lover, but occasionally, Ma would indulge, too.
Pizza Hut was our staple food.
When the "dinnnng dooooonnng" wafted through the house, I'd come running out of my pink-carpeted bedroom, anticipating the smell of hot, butter-drenched bread and melty mozzarella engulfing our home. I couldn't wait to pluck the slices of black olives from their cheesy bed and pop them in my mouth. Like Ma, I loved olives on their own.
Pizza became a go-to in my house when Ma decided she was done with cooking. She'd work, driving a truck delivering packages for UPS in the hot Texas sun, come home, cook, and then she'd have to fight me and Tash to eat what she'd made.
Her food wasn't good, and she didn't like making it. It didn't taste like Aunt Gayla's, her oldest sister, who likely learned a thing or two from my grandmother, Madea. But Madea died when Ma was 10, so she never had a chance to learn anything.
Canned spinach, canned asparagus, or canned carrots on the side of a bone-dry, baked pork chop with her old standby, mashed potatoes—not my idea of good eating. Meatloaf, again?! Not the frozen Brussels sprouts with the life boiled out of them!
We never told Ma we didn't like her food, but our actions said plenty. I, age 7, with a preference for the saccharine crunch of Honey Combs, Apple Jacks, or Cinnamon Toast Crunch, would linger at the dinner table, plate barely touched (I'd eat the mashed potatoes), then finally proclaim, "OK, I'm done!" And Tash, the obstinate teenager determined to make her own decisions, would silently let it be known she wasn't eating Ma's lackluster food by simply staying in her bedroom.
That left Alvin, who didn't give Ma any grief. But I think he was pretty fond of the comfort food we got from Grandy's all the time for a reason.
So, what's a working mom to do? I’ll tell you, she said, "fuck it. I'm done." She preferred to provide anyway. Money = love. So it became pizza night (or Grandy's night or On The Border night, etc.) a lot of nights. And let me tell you, we loved it.
But college was a different story for Tash and, later on, for me too. Away from the comfort (read: weekly monetary allowance for food), we both learned to cook.
On her breaks from Colorado State, Tash would introduce us to how she was eating these days—no red meat. 2% milk (if any). Turkey burgers. Lemon pepper-baked chicken. Veggies were fresh or roasted, not boiled to mush. She had a young family and wanted my niece to grow up eating healthily. Simple ingredients, good flavors, and to me, a major component—she cooked with a sense of enjoyment.
I got curious about cooking around 24-ish while wrapping up my final semesters at the University of North Texas. I thought, "Tasha didn't learn to cook at home, but her food is great. Can I do the same?"
Perusing the campus bookstore between classes, I found a Southern food cookbook and impulsively bought it. Fast-forward a bit, and I'm inviting friends to my apartment to try it out.
Baked mac and cheese. Oven-fried chicken. Collard greens.
“Russ hasn't gotten sick yet, and he's still eating it. Oh shit, he likes it? What else can I make? I think I like this.”
Shout out to my college friends who allowed me to use them as guinea pigs test those recipes! Looking back, I'm shocked that I, a total amateur, had the confidence to feed anyone chicken. (On the other side of this keyboard, I'm laughing through my grimacing!)
These little experiments taught me a couple of things: the "what else can I make?" of it all spoke to the joy I found creating in the kitchen. Unlike my working mom, I didn't have to rush to get something on the table to feed my family. I had time to play. I could make things from scratch. (And maybe it's PTSD, but aside from staples like tomato sauce, you won't find a lot of canned goods in my pantry.)
I learned that I like feeding people and entertaining. To me, food is a love language. It's something I enjoy making and sharing—different from but not unlike my mom, who enjoys sharing what she likes making, too—money!
I can't say that I longed for home-cooked meals, and because my mom didn't make them, I do. I had no qualms about eating out all the time, and it's a huge reason why I love food. But I definitely think her not cooking (thus sparing us soulless meals that she hated making) has allowed me to approach what I make from that place of curiosity and creativity.
By the way, if you're wondering whether my mom cooks today, the answer is yes. She sent me a picture of this gorgeous olive oil-drizzled hummus she made from scratch not too long ago (among lots of other delicious-looking photos of meals she’s made), and in my mind, I’m like, "So, where was that energy in 1992?" But I get it. Now, she has the space to create sans punk-ass kids sitting around having opinions!