When I Forget, I Cook
Olive oil is lathered in my hair. My nose understands the death that’s coming before even the lice on my head. The death of the possibility of ever stomaching olive oil again. My mom combs what should’ve been a part of dinner into my hair. She combs slowly. She combs firm but gently. She does the same with my sisters. We go to sleep with the purest of oils drowning out the profane that has crawled its way on our scalps. We skipped school that week. So did the majority of our elementary school. But the smell of olive oil still lingered on our pillows and in our combs and in our noses. It took me twelve years to like olive oil again.
Celery is cut neatly and smothered with peanut butter. I hate peanut butter. My sisters eat it straight with a spoon. Just thinking of thick peanut glue lining my tongue and my gums makes me wonder why someone would choose to use a word so delectable, an ingredient most significant, in the name of this nearly inedible spread. A disgrace to the name. I’d much rather have a spoonful of butter. But then, Mom pulls out the raisins. The raisins. A fruit so perfectly sunkissed on the vine that grape juice is replaced by undiluted sunlight extract. This delightful ingredient mixed with my least favorite of all somehow made my favorite snack. When I got to middle school, raisins weren’t cool anymore and I grew too old to be seen with Ants on a Log. I’ve since grown young enough to eat it again.
Minced garlic is the next ingredient. “I can get it, Momma!” I say as fast as I can. I pull out the ancient tub the size of my belly and lug it up on the counter. The lid is stuck so I wait for Mom to open it and unleash one of my favorite smells. Using a fork, I scoop a bit of heaven and plop it in the pot (Mom never measures garlic, so neither do I). Like always, I ask, “Momma, can I eat some?” and as always, she says, “You’re not gonna like it.” I lick a single piece of minced garlic off the fork anyway. I like it. I take one last sniff of the Kirkland’s Signature, that which never runs dry, before my mom puts it back in the fridge until next time. I now have a Costco card of my own, and in my fridge, you’ll find minced garlic. I add it to everything I cook; I watch nostalgia sizzle with oil on the cast iron. Sometimes I cook just to remember.
Sweet potatoes. Again. Mashed sweet potatoes seemed to be as necessary as the very plates we ate on for Burrell family dinnertime. I didn’t understand why at the time. My personal favorite tactic was to let about a whole stick of butter melt in a canyon of sweet potato and steam. Just how I like it—butter soup. I sip butter with each small bite of sweet potato and dread the prediction that mashed sweet potatoes will accompany tomorrow’s dinner too. But as I make sweet potatoes today, I think fondly of the inexpensive vegetable and the table it sat on. I think fondly of the humble meals that gave me nourishment in my stomach for the present and nourishment in my soul for the future. I remember the blessings we counted as we ate the sweetest of vegetables. From the meekest soil came provision from God. The dirt was wiped away, the insides softened, and we ate orange gratitude for dinner.