I probably throw myself into cooking to avoid feelings. In the last 2 weeks I have made soups, stews, casseroles, pastas, roasted winter vegetables, sweated onions and cabbage, and invented new dishes. Sometimes, it was out of obligation. Well, providing food to my boyfriend and daughter is never not an option. But, lately, in an effort to reduce our GrubHub and Seamless consumption from neighborhood burger or pizza joints with fare likely laden in MSG, I’ve been diving into recipes just to see what I can make taste good. This Thanksgiving, I’m tackling a green bean casserole I’ve never done before, and will probably try something a little new-American with our heritage Turkey, I will name Tom.
I’ve already got all the produce, and combed through the aisles of the Grand Central Market Place for crème fraise and sea salt maple butter churned in Vermont. Would Mommy be proud or think this was silly? She would always call me out when I was distracting myself with tasks to avoid feelings. I will go home tonight to cook and avoid an entire landscape that is coming up in front of me. It’s a space where Mommy should be, giving me tips on how to make the oyster dressing and requesting vegetarian sides, and just helping me. She taught me how to make an Anderson Thanksgiving, which was always with care but also with speed that gathered transformative power from supermarket to table.