During my early 20s and possibly into my 30s, a very close family member–someone I happen to love very dearly–used to break down toward the end of every holiday gathering, shouting something about how we were all a bunch of lazy TV addicts who did nothing to help make a holiday dinner a success. She would then swear that we would never celebrate another holiday together again unless it was over her dead body.
Or something like that. I may have misquoted the exact words, but the person who said them knows who she is. She can correct me in the comments if she so chooses.
We TV addicts eventually solved this issue with an ingenious solution: we started doing all the cooking. It took us years to come up with that strategy. Yes, we are all a bit dense, apparently.
At any rate, in another household that I frequent roughly once a year, similar unrest would occur. In this house the arguments often started over important discussions such as who was washing what pot with the wrong dishcloth, who was cooking their oatmeal for too many minutes and with not enough water, and who drank the last bottle of what.
You get the idea.
Those fond memories surfaced in a giant flourish recently when I walked into my hallway and discovered a tin of gingerbread cookies on the carpet. It was open. The cookies were here and there. Some had been reduced to crumbs. Many were still intact. All had been lovingly licked clean of icing by my geriatric dog.
First I was in awe. After all, I’d stored the tin up pretty high, and the tin was just about adult proof. I wasn’t sure how a creature without thumbs had cracked it.
Then I was awash with wonderful memories. The first one, of course, was of the entire Sunday I’d spent making those cookies with my kid and my parents. A smile came to my face as I remembered grandpa patiently rolling out the dough and my kid squeezing so much icing onto various cookies that they could never possibly dry. It had been a truly wonderful experience, so wonderful that I almost didn’t mind that the dog had ruined at least a third of that day’s bounty. The true reward had been the experience. Eating the cookies was just an added bonus.
Then I thought of the other times—the much more negative ones. I actually, for some dysfunctional reason, remember those times quite fondly, too. Still, it made me wonder: what makes the difference? Why is it that we can, at times, bake up a warm batch of love and other times cook a giant cauldron of resentment?
I had no answers, at first, so I emailed my friend Brette Sember, someone who cooks a lot more than I do. She’s written several cookbooks and food compendiums, including one aptly titled Cookie: A Love Story.
This is what she said:
“It’s important to not let cooking become about other things,” Brette wrote. “It’s easy to feel resentful: I have no help, I always cook, no one helps clean up, I am cooking because we can’t afford to go out, I’m pissed that I have to do everything around here, I have to decide everything, this house is too small, this kitchen is too small! I know I’ve had those thoughts while slamming around the kitchen. If your family hears you complaining, though, you’ve taken some of the joy of the food from them. Sometimes when I don’t feel like cooking, I try to think about what I’m accomplishing. I’m feeding my family, giving them that warm, full tummy feeling and I am giving them something to look forward to at the end of their day. Good food does not have to be fancy or even pretty. It doesn’t have to mean hours of slaving. Even takeout can be good food that makes people feel good. It’s about framing the meal as a positive experience.”
I also posed the question to another kitchen-loving friend Candace Walsh, author of the recent food memoir Licking the Spoon. In her memoir, Walsh writes of the time she made an elaborate holiday meal for her mother, sister and boyfriend. By elaborate, I mean that it was beyond what Martha Stewart could have pulled off with the help of kitchen staff. The boyfriend watched sports nearly the whole time, and when Walsh put the meal on the table, he said, “You know what’s missing? The vegetable. I can’t believe you forgot the vegetable!”
It might go without saying that he became her ex-boyfriend. Note to all: if you didn’t help prepare the meal, don’t critique it.
At any rate, here’s some advice from Walsh for kitchen gurus, like herself, who want things done a certain way: “I’m usually the cook in our house, but I do want others to cook some nights. When my wife took a turn at cooking recently, things went haywire. The butcher gave her boneless, skinless chicken breasts, not bone-in, skin-on, although she asked for the latter. I made a lot of assumptions–that she didn’t listen, that she was being careless–and I also assumed that it wouldn’t come out right. Well, I was totally wrong. It was delicious. I was being a control freak, and I was being ungrateful. Even if the food had come out kind of wonky (it didn’t), I should have been especially conscious of her intention. I realized that, more than anything, I wished that I had more time to cook. I was more upset about having such long workdays. Lesson: Any beginner should be given the patience and encouragement that you give a child learning to do something.”
As for me, I make a point of bringing happiness to the people around me. I listen intently, try to compliment each person at least once, and generally try to smile and have a great time. By focusing on the well-being of others, I’m less likely to find anything to feel resentful about.How to Cook Happiness
