I was hungry when I started cooking. Yesterday, I made the recipe: Mushroom Pizza with Taleggio and Thyme, as my first from the cookbook. If you're anything like me, you know the most severe craving when hunger settles in is that of pizza. For some reason, my only awareness of nutrients in those times is that of doughy carbs and golden melted cheese. I had already had this meal planned for today and needless to say, the timing could not have been more perfect. 

This pizza recipe was quite unique. It consisted of only two layers and no sauce. One layer of sauteed mushrooms with woody herbs, one layer of torn cheeses (I used a french swiss, another semi-soft cheese, instead of Taleggio, as sadly no grocery near me seemed to carry it), and a light sprinkle of the remaining fresh herbs. 

As I cooked, I learned that I often cheat methodology to make a meal quicker or more convenient. Having to make three small batches of browned mushrooms really tested my patience. As the instructions explained, any more than a single layer of mushrooms in a pan with oil will cause the fungi to become steamed, rather than browned. Cooked in small batches, more flavor is extracted and the outside will properly brown. 

I also learned how weird measuring feels to me. I felt silly as I plucked rosemary sprigs off the stem and put them in a tablespoon. Though my eyes are fairly good at measuring without using tools, I know the practice of precision is vital to replicating or sharing a recipe.

Interestingly, my hunger seemed to make me more aware of my senses. I wanted to eat right then, so any perfume of deliciousness seemed to be more pungent and covetous (I had eaten a good sized lunch—I’m just a bit dramatic). The piney citrus scent of the rosemary lingered on my fingertips long after I was done picking. I put a strand of hair behind my ear and, with my fingers close to my face, my nostrils again tasted the earthy zest that felt like aging leaves and wind blown cheeks. 

When the pizza finished and my hungry tastebuds were finally able to feast, I noticed for the first time how the dullness of french swiss is actually accompanied by a sharp, tangy punch (I used to think swiss didn’t have much flavor). I noticed how the method of tearing the cheese, rather than shredded, allowed for a more holistic tasting of the cheese itself. The whole meal tasted like a forest to me—like a stream next to a little wooden cottage that made the air muggy in the heat, but refreshing when the new Autumn wind picks up sprinkles of fresh water and gives them as food to the moss and to the mushrooms. What a pizza.

Gulotta featured Mary Oliver’s poem, “Mushrooms,” to introduce this recipe. As Gulotta recognized in her analysis of Oliver’s poem, to eat a mushroom is to trust that the forager knows what poison looks like—and refrains from plucking it from the earth. As I sliced through each airy, springy fungi, I thought about each time I have eaten mushrooms without one thought that some of these very kind can kill, disturb, or disrupt. I thought about how much blind trust is required for going about my day, of which I am often oblivious. I trust that the floor of my apartment was built soundly. I trust that when a product packaging says “Gluten-Free,” that it is, in fact, gluten-free. I trust my car to take me from one place to the next (well, most of the time…). My trust is, no doubt, inadvertently established based on the credibility of a brand, company, or person. To think about all the times I trust without even full awareness, reminds me of the times I do not trust the most trustworthy source I know. To think I trust so blindly in these man-made establishments, when there is a God, who both makes sure the earth spins and wakes me up each morning, whom I often struggle to trust with even simple tasks like sustaining me through a hard day. As I cook, I slice mushrooms and think of truth, and I am challenged to, once again, give my trust to the one who forages for the birds and omnisciently knows which mushrooms are poisonous and which are safe for me. I am hungry for more as I cook.

Psalm 9:10

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.