Let’s face it – a chef is not a career most Jewish parents want their children to pursue. I heard someone say that at the Lattes to Latkes conference, and could relate all too well. When I decided last spring that it was time for me to make a career change after 15 years of being a journalist, I knew it was the right thing – for me. My husband-to-be and friends all knew it, too. The hard part was telling my dad and my 96-year-old grandpa.
My Dad long ago got over the fact that I wasn’t going to follow in his footsteps and get a PhD. But still. I couldn’t keep it from him, so I did tell him of my decision right away. I was in the midst of wedding planning, though, so there was kind of a lot going on. I waited with my grandpa, as long as I possibly could. I waited until I felt I couldn’t keep it from him anymore, and as I suspected, I got the silence on the other end of the line.
But what would my mom have thought? That is the question that I think about all the time. Sure, she could throw a party for 75 without breaking a sweat, (I included a photo of her some time in the early 1990s, I think, about to serve dessert) but she did it for fun. Her career as an academic counselor was something completely different, and she loved working with struggling college students just as much as she loved being in the kitchen.
In those months right after she died, in May of 2002, I quickly realized that cooking was a way to feel her presence more than anything else I could do. I’ve always felt the spirituality in the meditative rhythm of cooking, but it was in that period that the simple act of chopping vegetables, or browsing my cookbooks became so much more meaningful; it was a way to connect with her, to summon her, to feel her looking over my shoulder. Sometimes I spoke to her as I worked.
I fully attribute my passion for cooking to my mother. As an only child, I used to sit in the kitchen and watch her make a soup, a spaghetti sauce and a roast chicken, perhaps; three things simultaneously to freeze for weeknight dinners later.
When I was 13, she decided she was tired of being responsible for dinner every night. She worked full-time, and take-out was not an option. She told my father and me: “You both will now cook dinner one night a week.” She would shop for us, if we told her what to get, and we could consult with her, but she wasn’t even going to help us.
At first, we balked. But we soon got used to it, and my dad learned to make a mean Trout Almondine. I still remember my first dish: Sweet and Sour Meatballs that I found in one of her cookbooks. It was as awful as it sounds. But my parents ate it, and encouraged me to keep going. Things quickly improved.
Earlier this week, I gave a one-hour cooking demo in front of my culinary school, as a sort of final. We had to choose a health topic to research as well, so I spoke about pregnant women and nursing moms (I am at that late-30s age when everyone around me is having babies) and what they should eat. Protein and iron top the list, so I picked two dishes that I love: Red Lentil Dal and Sag Paneer.
It just so happened that my father was in town, and I actually had to think twice whether to invite him. Sure, he’s accepted my decision by now, saying “If it makes you happy.” But he’s an academic, who lately, has been jetting around Europe talking about Iraq and how it is analogous to a topic he wrote a book about: the French-Algerian War. www.ucpress.edu/books/pages/9075.html
Did I really want him there?
I decided that yes, he should come, so he and his wife sat front row and center, as I made my Sag Paneer and Dal, talking up the virtues of lentils and spinach. I also gave my classmates a full explanation of how to make paneer, and a few tips about cooking Indian food that I’ve learned along the way.
I could see he was proud, and realized that my invitation had the effect I was hoping for – that he would see that my decision was the right one – and that my career change does not necessarily mean the end of using my brain.
When we got together after class, he said the one thing I didn’t even realize I had been hoping to hear: “I wish your mother could have seen you.”
I answered, “She did.”