Nourished

I recently watched two of my favorite movies, 'Like Water For Chocolate' and 'Chocolate'. While I could joke about the fact that the word chocolate is in both titles, a realization struck me: each is about strong, feminine women who live outside the expectations of their society, and each features heroines who cook. And my preference for the two particular movies makes me contemplate their deeper meaning-there's something powerful about the ability to nourish. There's an inherent sense of renewal in preparing a meal; without food, our bodies wither and die. So much is wrapped up in the idea of eating-it's rhythms, flavors, consequences-that many thoughtful movies have featured it as their crux. 'Babbette's Feast' is another. In fact, it would be interesting to determine how many movies use food as the main vehicle for their characters and plot. Good cooks, top chefs, bad cooks, people who like to eat, people who don't like to eat.....
I used to be a good cook, and I used to enjoy eating. When I was married, I was driven to feed my family well-balanced meals. The process energized me. I would sing and dance around the kitchen, listening to the Gypsy Kings while I chopped onions and fried fish. My iron skillets were my favorite instruments to create edible joy. The sound of my wooden spoon tapping against the side of the mixing bowl was added texture to the theme songs of my kitchen. Now, although I still have children to feed, I utilize the microwave more than should be considered proper. I usually manage to cook one full meal a day, but very few dirty pots and pans find their way into the sink. I no longer sing and dance my way through meal preparations; instead I sigh a lot and tell the kids to get out of the kitchen. My theme song is the persistent beep of the microwave, telling me the frozen entree and canned peas are done.
Why did I lose my zest, my sense of strength? I don't know; I just know the culinary joy went out of me. Feeding and eating seem more a chore than anything. There is no beat to sway to. I've tried to regain some dimensionality, but everything just tastes flat. Cooking wears me out, and I despair when I open the cupboards and imagine standing in front of the stove for even a few minutes. I've even tried tricking myself by inviting friends over; it's no use.
The one exception seems to be when my oldest comes home to visit. He lives with his father, and left a few months before the divorce became final. He's been gone from our regular routine for five years now, visiting on Thanksgiving or Christmas and during the summer. I feel sometimes that he's an old acquaintance with whom we've kept touch, but have to learn again. I know him and love him, but we're not a regular part of each other's lives. But when he comes, I begin to plan menus and grocery shop for fresh vegetables, rather than processed food. I enjoy the sound of my fry pan sizzling with heated oil. It's a glimpse of what used to be.
You may assume that my joy waned because I no longer cooked for a husband. The irony is that even in those days when I had a husband, when I propped a toddler on my hip while stirring the sauce and admonishing the other two to "Stop that fussing and set the table!", my husband was only home once in a while. He's in the military, even now, and we were 'geographically separated'. It was more than that, really, but that's another story. The children and I only saw him on the average of once every three months. Our lives seemed full enough without him, and he was a visitor to be on our best behavior for when he did come home. When he left, the family returned to its natural rhythms. Those were the ones we understood and were comfortable with.
So what caused my ardor for properly nourishing my family to cool? I guess it was losing my child. The ingredients that simmered together to create the savor of my life lacked a vital spice; the heating coil became detached from the source of power....use whatever analogy you like. The long-distance relationship with my husband that had grown so distasteful to me that I severed it, foreshadowed the relationship I seemed predestined to have with my son.
He's here with me for the summer now. I've cooked three meals today. When the kids asked for seconds, I breathed in a little deeper. And the aromas which greeted my nose strengthened me. We were nourished and I felt good. Tomorrow, I'll dig out my iron skillet. Maybe I'll even sway to the sounds of them getting to know each other again, the sounds of solidarity, the rhythms of laughter and music coming from my kids enjoying each other's company.