courtney eldridge
 

thanks, but no thanks

Listen, truth is, I don’t cook. As a matter of fact, I hate to cook, I really do. I mean, I love to eat, I just hate to cook. So I married a man who cooks, and he was an amazing cook—a chef, really. Then again, great chef, lousy husband. Now there’s a surprise.

Anyhow, now that I’m alone again, or rather, now that I’m single again, everything my ex- taught me to cook turns my stomach. Which is a shame, really: his artichokes with vinaigrette were fantastic. His Israeli Salad was a piece of cake. And that other dish, what’s it called…? It’s Middle Eastern, and there are numerous variations, but all you need is a can of tomatoes, an onion, a couple eggs and bread…No, I can’t remember what it’s called.

Just as well, I suppose, because I can’t make those things. I mean, I know how to make them, I just can’t bring myself to make anything that reminds me of my ex-. Which takes me back to my long history with rice. Rice and sugar. Rice and soy sauce. Rice and beans. Oh, there you go—there’s something: my rice and beans are edible. Good thing, too, because that’s about all I can afford to eat these days. Honestly, there are days I’m still scraping change for the subway, so, fortunately or unfortunately, cooking is the least of my worries.

Actually, the other day, I was eavesreading on the subway, and there was this ad in the paper that said, Get Your Gourmet On…We’re talking a.m. New York, okay? Of course I had to laugh, but this whole fine dining, pop-star chef, Food TV craze, it’s gone too far. But what really kills me are these people who say things like, Oh, I could never live without great food and wine…And on one hand, I know what they’re saying, and I try not to be self-righteous, I really do. But on the other hand, I just smile, thinking, I’m sorry, but…do you know what an asshole you sound like saying that? Actually, come to think of it, my ex-husband used to say that. Gee, what a coincidence, huh? Joke.

All I’m saying is that we came from completely different worlds, and to be perfectly honest, there was a time that had no small appeal. I was fascinated. I mean, come on—when we started dating, I was working two or three part-time jobs, trying to write, subsisting on a steady diet of Uncle Ben’s, and he was a Master Sommelier with a degree in restaurant management, who’d moved to New York to open his own restaurant. So of course we had very different views on the place and importance of food in our life; that was a given. What I didn’t know was just how much food could unite or divide two people.

My husband summed it up in a single question, which I remember him asking while we were standing in that broom-closet sized kitchen on Chambers, shortly after we’d married. And the reason I remember is because I thought it was one of the strangest questions I’d ever heard. Were you raised on canned food? he said. And I’m telling you, the look, the shudder of disgust that ran up and down his spine as he spoke the word canned—obviously, something was wrong, but I had no idea what. I was just like, babe, you know the can opener’s the one piece of kitchen equipment that I know how to use.

Seriously, canned food, as opposed to what, not eating? Really, what a bizarre question, I thought, and I almost started laughing, but all I said was, Yes, why? And then he just sort of nodded, like, oh, how interesting…We never ate canned food in my house, he said, taking his plate into the other room. It sounds trivial, I know, but it wasn’t—not to me, at least. Not if you knew the guy and knew how much food meant to him, what it said about a person in his eyes. I mean, basically, I just got slagged: whether he meant to or not was beside the point.

So I stood there a moment, feeling confused, then strangely embarrassed of myself, my family…And so of course there was nothing to do but mock him, wrinkling my nose and repeating the comment in my snottiest tone: We never ate canned food in my house…. Childish, I know: I freely admit that it was completely immature of me. But then again, it did make me feel better, mocking him, much better, actually.

And the fact of the matter is that we did eat canned food in my house—and lots of it, too. What, does that make me low-class? Fine. You know what else? Just for the record, I must have been twenty before I learned that Ragu wasn’t spaghetti sauce and iceberg wasn’t lettuce.

Yes, I was brought up on your standard Monday-through-Friday menu of Shake ‘n Bake, Spanish Rice, Tuna Casserole, Goulash, and Leftovers (aka Fend for Yourself Night)—you know, good ol’ bang-for-your-buck cooking. Out of a can, yes. I mean, seriously, what did he think? I told him we were poor—my family, my mother’s family…. I’m sorry, but isn’t it common knowledge that poor means canned, and canned means food in a poor family? And you’re damn glad to have it, too: that’s right. Now shut up and eat.

That was my mother’s family, at least, which was your basic small town Catholic lower-middle-class family of ten. Which is to say, there was no discussion about food, are you kidding? You ate what was put in front of you; you ate everything on your plate; and you never ever complained. Because any child who complained or refused to eat everything on their plate got their ass beat and sent to bed, hungry. That’s Catholicism in my book, it’s not the number of mouths to feed; it’s the one who’s howling, getting their ass paddled at the kitchen table. And everyone else just keeps eating, absolutely.

But of course I would say that: one of the only times in my life I was ever spanked was at the dinner table. I was about three, I guess, and one weekend, my mom made this huge pot of chili, right—another house specialty, chili and Fritos. And because we were broke, she made enough chili to last a week, and it did. So, by Friday night, five nights later, I’d had enough of chili, and I refused to eat my dinner. Even worse, I sassed off right to her face: I hate chili! I said, going so far as to shove the bowl across the table. I mean, it was just your basic bratty kid behavior, right? So I was ordered to sit there until I finished my dinner, which of course I refused to do.

So I sat at the table. And I sat. And I sat. And from time to time, my mom checked on my progress, but of course there was none. Because I had decided I would rather spend the rest of my life at that table than eat another bite of chili...It was a Mexican standoff, all right, a Knee-high Noon, and I knew I was pressing my luck. Oh, hell yeah. I knew, but I didn’t care: I wasn’t eating that shit.

Finally, a few hours later—and granted, it might have been forty minutes, who knows—but at some point, my mother asked one last time if I was going to eat my dinner. Never, I thought, throwing myself across the table and hiding my face in my forearms, shaking my head, but she wasn’t impressed with my performance. Keep in mind that I’d never been spanked before—my mother didn’t need to raise a hand, considering she had this terrifying register of voice that said, Don’t…fuck with me! And that was the voice she used, all right. This is your last warning. Are you going to eat your dinner? she said, firmly taking hold of one of my biceps. And I wasn’t scared—it was thrilling, actually. Last warning: I’d never made it that far! It was the moment of truth, all right, so I bit the bullet. No, I said, and that was it: snap!

I mean, she lost it. Oh, man, she pulled me from the table with such force that I knocked over the chair as she started whaling away, paddling my ass. Honestly, if she’d had a wooden spoon, she would’ve broken it on the first swing. But what I remember most vividly was her hand coming down, that there was just this haywire rhythm to her arm, like she couldn’t hit me hard or fast enough, and I remember thinking—no, I somehow remember knowing that she couldn’t stop hitting me even if she wanted to. When she finally did, I was sent to my room, and we never spoke of it again.

In all fairness, maybe she only spanked me a few times, who knows, but that is definitely how I remember it. So it was a good twenty years before we ever talked about the incident. I’m not even sure how it came up in conversation, I was probably telling her what a terrible, abusive mother she had been all my life. Oh, that’s right—I cited the chili beating as but one example, and we started laughing, and then my mom finally told me the rest of the story.

The simple fact was we had no money—I mean, no money—no food, nothing. We had absolutely nothing else to eat in the house—no juice, no milk, bread, cereal…And my mom didn’t know how she would feed me the next morning, or the next day, or the next. I don’t know how she got us through that weekend; I could never ask. But so yeah, she lost it. And I’m sure I would have done the same in her position. Which might explain why I’ve never wanted to be in her position, but anyhow.

Now my mother is an amazing woman, truly, but she’s nothing if not proud. Seriously, it took years of pleading before she allowed me to Trick Or Treat: because she always called it The Beggars Banquet; and we did not take handouts. Good Lord. Anyhow, a few years later, sometime during the late seventies, I can only imagine how difficult it was for her to apply for welfare. Then again, she had a kid, and you do what you have to do.

So we did our shopping at stores that took food stamps, and I was enrolled in one of those programs you see advertised on the subway, usually in Spanish. You know those posters with a picture of a smiling young woman and her baby or maybe just some cute little kid—such bullshit, don’t even get me started. Anyhow, you know what I’m talking about, those posters advertising food programs in which the low-income can enroll their kids, so you can be sure your kid gets fed one solid meal a day. Which is usually breakfast, every day before school. At least that was the program I was enrolled in, and it used to shame the hell out of me, slipping out of the cafeteria every morning.

Of course it’s ridiculous now, but I used to live in mortal fear that one of my classmates would see me and then the whole school, K-9, would know that Courtney Eldridge was a welfare case…oh, no! Yes, I laugh. Then again, looking at it now, it’s hard to say who was more proud, my mom or myself.

I will say that my mother never encouraged or discouraged me from the kitchen. For better or worse, my guess is she never wanted me to feel the kitchen was my place—not unless I wanted it to be, and I didn’t. There were just too many other things I wanted to do. But what I realized early on was that the kitchen was always the easiest place to talk to my mom, if I caught her while she was cooking, and how meditative it seemed, watching her hands chopping and stirring. I used to sit on the far counter, watching her cook, and we’d talk in a way that we never spoke anywhere else. Intimately, I suppose, for lack of a better word.

In fact, the first and only time I ever asked my mother if she believed in God was in the kitchen. I mean, I must have been twenty years old; I’d never been confirmed; my mom hadn’t been to mass in a good twenty years: and I was still afraid to ask. It’s just one of those things we don’t talk about. God and food, yes.

Now, my husband, on the other hand…My husband was Israeli first and Jewish second, as they say. Secular, in other words. But if you ask me, all that really means is the guy had no problem complaining and no tact when doing so. Needless to say, he was extremely, I dare say, violently opinionated on the subject of fine dining in New York City. Case in point: I had to edit the word battlefield out of his business plan, okay. And furthermore, not only was our fine dining completely substandard, New Yorkers didn’t know anything about great food and wine, in his opinion, and I had no choice but to hold my tongue.

I mean, there was a part of me that balked at what I considered nothing more than typical Eurotrash condescension, but then again, how could I argue? Like I said, when we met, I didn’t know my Michelin from Meineke, okay. I’m serious. Whereas my husband’s entire life was spent traveling the world, staying at four- and five-star hotels, dining at three- and four-star restaurants, and living a very good life, as he was always the first to point out—well, unless his mother was there to remind him first. In any case, when I said he was a chef, I didn’t mean he held a culinary degree from CIA or Johnson & Wales, or any of those schools—what need? He had his mother.

Oh, I heard all about his mother, long before we met, yes…Former actress, former model, semi-retired world-renowned food critic—a gastronomic writer, to be exact. The only thing I heard about more than his mother, really, was his mother’s cooking, because no one cooks better than my mother, he always said. And not only had she been teaching him about food and wine since infancy, the two of them had been attending special cooking schools and private classes all over the world since he was in his teens, basically.

So yes, my husband was an unapologetic snob, but not impolite. No, he was always polite in the restaurant, but I always knew what was coming, soon as we stepped out the door. Because this look would cross his face, somewhere between rage and asking if the chef ate canned food, growing up. But of course it wasn’t just the food; it was the entire experience from the moment we walked into a restaurant. Everything: the layout; the décor; the lighting; the service; the menu; the specials; how efficiently the kitchen was running that night; and then, the moment of truth, when the first course appeared….

But his eyes would get straight to work as soon as we stepped foot through the front door; and he knew his business, he really did. I’ll give him that any day. Sometimes, watching him take in a room, it was like watching an artist sketch a nude, the way his eyes darted back and forth, from body to canvas, never still. And sometimes he’d make a comment, offering criticism or praise, or mentioning some restaurant he knew in London or Barcelona or wherever…But that’s how he taught me, how I learned the most, really, just from watching him. And I was a quick study—I think so, yes.

Then again, so much has to do with exposure. Because he took me to all sorts of places I’d never been, restaurants I never could’ve afforded, otherwise. Mostly two- and three-star, but the kinds of places I’d always imagined I wanted to go, until you really got down to it, and I didn’t, after all. It used to stress me out so badly, just trying to figure out what to wear, for fear of drawing attention to myself. And why I cared—honestly, that was such a ridiculous waste of time and energy. Really, I don’t know what I was thinking…Then again, there were a few instances that my ignorance showed.

Like the first time we went to Danube, when I took my wine glass firmly in hand, pretty much like a beer bottle, I suppose, and my husband kept tapping my hand and wagging his finger at me, No-no-no…Until I finally said, What? What is your problem? I asked, completely fed up, then he leaned forward and whispered over the table, explaining that you hold a wineglass by the stem, not the bulb. I didn’t know the proper way to hold my wineglass, because no one had ever told me. No one had ever taught me any table manners, to be honest. So I was mortified, of course, but thankfully, there weren’t too many of those incidents. And otherwise, his view of wine was this: either you like it or you don’t, so just figure out what you like. In fact, wine was one of the few things that humbled the guy. Which was a pleasure in itself, believe me.

So I decided, well, I guess I’ll just tell him what I like. Soon enough, when he’d bring home a bottle of wine that really knocked my socks off, I’d call him at the restaurant, while he was working on the floor, just to tell him so. Some afternoons, he’d rush home for an hour between shifts, carrying an erect briefcase, full of new wines: jackpot. Oooh…I’d squeal, greedily clapping my hands, running to meet him at the door, and throwing my arms around his neck: Is that a Blah-di-blah-y-Blah-de-blah, or are you just happy to see me? Then, before I could lay on the full-court press of my solicitation, my husband would share the retail price, telling me not to get used to it. So, feeling slightly deflated, I’d carefully remove my arms, telling him that if I wasn’t getting used to it, he might want to look into some retail prices of his own.

Anyhow, I’d say, oh, 99% of the time, we agreed on wine and just about every restaurant we visited. Then again, the more I learned from my husband, the more restaurants were disappointing, actually. And it wasn’t long before I started realizing what a snob I can be—I have it in me, I’m afraid. And then some, oh. But the thing is, every time, every single time a word of criticism reached the tip of my tongue, I was torn between how I was raised and who I wanted to be. Which was not necessarily someone who complained in restaurants, but still.

I mean, simply admitting that my food wasn’t served hot, when he asked about my entrée, felt strangely disloyal. Like I was leaving my family behind or something—it was just so against the grain...What can I say? It’s hard to let these things go. Christ, my mother was forty years old before she could leave a bite of food on her plate. And I remember the day she told me, because I was so proud of her—I mean, I got all teared up like she was Norma Ray or some shit. Seriously, it was a genuine milestone in both our lives. Because it was the first time I had to wonder how old I would be before I could do the same.

I’ll tell you the turning point, though, the night everything changed for me. I mean, we went out to a lot of restaurants, and I enjoyed them, you know, but I can’t say I really cared until the night my husband took me to his favorite sushi joint. Which was the night we became engaged, for all practical purposes, because this was his top-secret joint—seriously, this was a serious commitment. I’m not kidding: the guy wouldn’t share the name of this place with anyone. But I will, of course, gladly. It’s this little spot on the Upper East Side called Sushi of Gari, and I was a bit stunned when we arrived, because the place wasn’t much to look at, taking our seats at the bar, while my husband ordered us the Chef’s Special and some sake.

Of course I’d had sushi before, but this…Sushi of Gari was nothing less than a revelation. I know that sounds exaggerated, but I’m telling you: the man did things with fish I didn’t know were possible, that were just…inconceivable to me before that moment—every single time, too. Because when you order the Chef’s Special, you’re served one piece of sushi at a time, and it’s a surprise every course.

And obviously the pleasure of sitting at the bar is watching those gentlemen prepare your sushi, which is genuine artistry, not to mention a complete turn on. You know, I’ve often heard Anthony Bourdain bandy the word orgasmic about, and I’d always roll my eyes, thinking, well, no shit, you’re a man: that’s a given. But still…the Chef’s Special at Sushi of Gari is a culinary multiple orgasm. That said, I must have had twelve courses—honestly, ten easy—before I finally said no more, thank you. And the only reason, the only reason I quit was because my husband had, and I didn’t want to look like a complete pig, even though everyone behind the bar knew exactly what the score was. Even so, I’m telling you, I could’ve gone all night. No problem.

Sufficed to say, looking at Gari, standing there in the middle, with those dashing streaks of gray hair, looking so handsome, so stern, so, so—masterful, it was all I could do, biting my tongue to keep a post coitus, I love you, from escaping my lips. I’m telling you, it was truly mind blowing, that meal. On par with any sexual, musical and/or pharmaceutical awakenings…ugh, unfuckingbelievable. Seriously, I cannot imagine skydiving could be more exhilarating. Then again, the bill will certainly bring you back to earth, but anyhow. Sushi was never the same after that. Actually, nothing was the same after that.

It’s true, once you know what’s possible…Well, like they say, you can’t go home again. So I figured the best way out of the jam was to take my parents, right. I mean, I certainly don’t have that kind of money, so God bless good ol’ Mitch and Cathy for coming to town once a year. My folks, yes, who, like me, also thought they’d had sushi before. Oh, no…oh no-no-no, I smiled, assuring them with my enlightened nod. If you haven’t been to Gari’s, you haven’t had sushi, trust me, I said. And they agreed. And now, every time I speak to my dad on the phone, he always makes a point of asking about the man, if I’ve seen him recently, speaking in a tone as though Gari was the one I let get away.

Speaking of, rumor has it that Gari once hit on my mother-in-law. And who could blame him? She’s stunning. She’s tall, thin, elegant. She’s led an incredibly glamorous life, and she’s one of the only women I’ve ever known who I’d call regal…Basically, she was everything I ever thought I wanted to be. Plus thirty years—but even that. I mean, she makes aging look pretty damn good. Like somewhere you might actually want to be, one day. And at my age, she was absolutely breathtaking.

Then again, truth be told, I didn’t like her at first for the simple reason that she was far more interested in talking about food than me. Hard to believe, I know, but the woman had no interest in me, whatsoever. It’s true: we met uptown, that first night, because my husband and his mother were attending some sort of food-and-wine-pairing series at some posh Midtown locale, organized by some bigwig in the French culinary scene, I don’t know what, but anyhow. The point is, I met them for dinner at a Korean BBQ joint in the thirties. Which I strongly suspect was chosen because they allow smoking in a back room, those cunning Koreans, but anyhow.

So there I was, trying to make conversation with my mother-in-law, asking about the tasting, which was exactly the wrong question. Because apparently, the tasting had proven a terrible disappointment, which she then proceeded to talk about on and off, the rest of the night, and I just thought, what is the big deal? So they served guacamole, and it wasn’t even good guacamole, get over it, lady. Jesus Christ…After we dropped her off at her hotel, my husband asked what I thought of her, and all I could say was, Is she always like that? Like what? he said. Does she always talk so much about food? I said, and, opening the building door for me, he just nodded yes, pretty much. Ohmygod, I thought, how long is she staying…?

As it turned out, the joke was on me. Because in the end, my mother-in-law proved a far better teacher than my husband for the simple reason that she knew how to tell a great story. She was a RADA-trained stage actress and she was so passionate about food that just listening to her was a hell of lot more exciting and educational than any cooking show I’ve ever seen. Yes, she was the one who taught me that every meal tells a story, literally and figuratively, and yes, she could talk for hours about famous chefs and famous restaurants and famous meals with famous friends, many of whom are now dead, I’m afraid.

As a matter of fact, my mother-in-law was a close friend of Rex Harrison, and to this day, every time she’s in New York, she makes a point of looking up Lady Marcia Harrison. They meet at Petrossian and feast on caviar, mais bien sûr. Oh, by the way, it’s pronounced Mar-SEE-uh, not Marsh-uh. Lady Marcia.

But she was no namedropper, my mother-in-law. Really, she’s no more interested in talking about a celebrity than a Parisian vendor who’s been selling her leeks since the 1960s. And of course it wasn’t what, it was how she described the food, how lovingly and descriptively and animatedly, all in the hopes those people and places and meals, that those stories might live on. See, that’s what I didn’t get at first: that she was just trying to share something with me the best way she knew how. I guess I had so many biases of my own, it took a while for me to see that, but once I did, I finally saw the beauty in looking at the world in that light. And for once, I wasn’t so afraid, you know.

But it certainly didn’t hurt that she had some pretty outrageous stories, too. Like that one about the time Peter O’Toole visited her in Israel—that was one of the most hilarious, depraved stories she ever told. Oh, sure, he looked harmless, sitting in the back row at the Oscars a few years ago, but I’m telling you, that man is crazy…. God, she has so many stories I’d love to share, but they aren’t mine to tell, you see. Regardless, my mother-in-law was the first person to translate her knowledge of food into a language I could appreciate without any backlash of conscience or fear of betrayal. And I grew to love her very much.

A few months after we married, she visited and took us to a four-star restaurant to celebrate. So of course calls were made—christ, even the whole thing with making calls and pulling strings, and I know it’s partly Israeli, but even that was so strange to me—we never ask for favors in my family, but anyhow. The kitchen was notified we were coming. And it’s quite a scene when one of the most famous chefs in the world steps out of the kitchen and approaches one table to speak to one guest, in particular. A few minutes later, the chef leaves, of course, but the whole room keeps staring: who are those people? Are they somebody? Should we know them? Funny.

At one point, my husband stepped outside for a cigarette, leaving me with my mother-in-law, who was telling me a story; I don’t remember which, but I was rapt. So, a few minutes later, my husband returned inside, grinning, and he proceeded to tell us that one of the other guests, a senator, no less, had introduced himself outside—ooh hooo, a senator, she and I said, nudging and winking at each other. We’d had a few glasses of wine by then, obviously. Anyhow, the senator laughed, offering my husband his condolences, assuming that my husband was dining with his new wife and his new mother-in-law. We all got a good laugh out of that. And it was probably the greatest compliment my husband ever gave me.

But it wasn’t always like that. A year later, my mother-in-law took us to New Orleans for a long weekend. We left New York in the morning, and that cheap-ass American Airlines didn’t even serve a crummy bag of pretzels, so we were famished by the time we got to our hotel. Well, naturally, ever the culinary explorer, my mother-in-law wanted the real deal, so we made a bee-line for a famous gumbo joint near our hotel. I was so hungry by the time we sat down, I was shaking, and when our gumbo arrived, it was several bites before I realized I was the only one eating: my husband and his mother had put down their forks almost simultaneously.

When the waitress approached, asking about our food, they both smiled and thanked her, saying it was delicious. But as soon as the waitress stepped away, they began speaking in Hebrew, which is never a good sign. What’s wrong? I asked, leaning forward. Inedible: gruel, my mother-in-law pronounced, with a violent shudder—I knew that shudder. Sure enough, my husband agreed, and neither touched their food, which left me in a terrible position. Waste food and go hungry, or prove myself uncouth…? Tough call, yeah. Especially when, a moment later, my mother-in-law surmised, Well, it is slave food, after all. And the first thought that came to mind was, I was born a poor black child. Nothing was ever easy for me…. I didn’t say a word. And my stomach growled until dinnertime.

So it’s probably not too surprising that I never cooked for my husband—are you kidding, between his standards and my lack of skill? Forget it. And he tried, I’ll give him that—the man honestly tried to teach me to cook, at least a few of the basics, but it always resulted in a scene straight out of The Miracle Worker. Seriously, I can do a pretty impressive Helen Keller, when cornered, and there was my husband, trying to wrestle me down, all but throwing water on me, forcing a utensil in my hand, and signing spatula: S-P-A-T…What’s funny is that’s much too close to the truth, I’m afraid.

Honestly, it was a running joke that eventually became a point of contention. When are you going to cook for me? he’d ask, and I’d say, soon, soon…And for a good year, two years, I had these wild fantasies of blowing him away with some dish or other, but in reality, I was way too intimidated to cook for the guy. I mean, the one thing I could make with any confidence was tuna casserole, but I knew my husband wouldn’t eat tuna casserole—are you kidding me? He’d rather starve, I’m sure of it. If he wouldn’t eat gumbo, he sure as hell wouldn’t eat tuna casserole.

No, I did make something for him once: I baked an apple pie, which I learned from my grandmother, who learned from her grandmother, and so of course I made it from scratch, right down to the lard. I went to the Farmer’s Market for the apples, and Garden of Eden for the best vanilla ice cream I could find—I even made a back up pie crust, in case my first effort failed. But it didn’t. No.

I’m pleased to report that my pie turned out beautifully—as a matter of fact, it was damn good, or so I thought, licking the knife and squeezing my shoulders, before excitedly grabbing two plates. I actually surprised myself, and I was so pleased, so proud I’d finally made something for my husband, handing him his plate, thinking, one thing. By God, don’t ever let it be said I can’t make an apple pie…But I still waited, anxiously, as my husband took a bite, and he nodded that it was good, but he didn’t like sweets, he said, setting the plate on his bedside table. That was it, I’m afraid.

The only other thing I knew that he didn’t, was Mexican food. My husband had never been to Mexico; he had no idea what authentic Mexican food was about. I learned to make beans in Mexico, the second or third time I went down for any real amount of time, about ten years ago. And there’s nothing to it, really, but like most things, it had never occurred to me to make them, myself. But ten years later, I make some mean black beans. Now that’s one thing I won’t eat out of a can, beans—not even Goya brand, no way. Anyhow, by the time I had the nerve to make Mexican food, even just a couple quesadillas, I didn’t care anymore. Because the marriage was long over.

Stillborn, really.

The one thing that makes me sad is that my mother-in-law didn’t have more time to get to know my mom, and vice versa. Because these days, my mother’s favorite subjects are food and cooking—and I’m so proud, I really am—because I never had a chance to see her so passionate about anything when I was growing up. By the time we finally had some money to our names—excuse me, by the time she finally had some money to her name—basically around the time I left home, my mother discovered that she loved to cook.

She just turned fifty-five, and they’re retiring soon, my parents. My mom’s toying with the idea of going to cooking school—not in the hopes of becoming a chef, but maybe catering, something like that, she says. And honestly, I don’t think there’s a chef in the world that could do a better job of feeding a family on nothing than she did when I was growing up. So who knows, maybe she has it in her, but I hope not. Not another chef, Mom: please, no more chefs, okay?

You know, I’ve been on my own for over a year now, and I still have moments when I feel torn by what I learned while I was married. For example: and I’m ashamed to admit this, but sometimes I wonder if I should correct my mom and tell her how to hold her wineglass, but of course I never do. I mean, she wouldn’t take it personally, and she might very well appreciate the tip, but it’s not that easy. And I know it’s proper, but that’s just wrong in my book. I’m sorry, I will not correct my mother’s manners. It’s just not worth it to me.

What’s interesting is that I’ve been reading a lot of recipes this past year—even though I only own two cookbooks, yes. The first is How To Cook Everything, which my parents gave me for Christmas two years ago, and which I still haven’t read, actually. But the other one, the one I have been reading, is my mother’s family cookbook—sorry, our family cookbook. Aptly titled, The Eldridge Family Cookbook, conceived by my grandfather, while we were all sitting around the dining table, during a family reunion, back in 1984. And you know what, I’ve hauled that little book across several continents, the past ten, fifteen years, but I’d never read the damn thing before now, no. I just needed to know it was there.

And it’s just a little rectangular spiral-bound book, about eight by five-and-a-half inches, with this white cover that my mother designed about fifteen years ago, with these little fruit and vegetable characters…Never mind what it looks like—that’s private. Which is why I never showed it to my husband. And as far as he’s concerned, I don’t regret that decision one bit, because I knew he would never understand, that he wouldn’t even try. As far as I’m concerned, it’s just regrettable that I didn’t have the confidence to show him, to say, this is mine. This is what I come from. And please try not to wince each and every time you see mention of Campbell’s Mushroom Soup, all right?

You know, there was a part of me that was so defiant, and a part of me that was so ashamed, and I really couldn’t say which was which at any given point in time. Maybe that fascinated him, too, at least in the beginning. Regardless, I can see it now, how much conflict that caused, internally and externally, but I still don’t understand it fully, what happened. Because the thing is, I’m not ashamed of where I come from anymore, not in the least. But I’m no longer married to the man, either. So there it is.

Sometimes, looking back at my marriage, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, really. But it was a great education, and I’ll never say otherwise. And in all fairness, I’m still torn, even now. I mean, there’s still a part of me that looks back and thinks, wow, I ate at Daniel. Imagine that. The girl who used to look both ways before sneaking out of the cafeteria…And then there’s a part of me that thinks, wow, I ate at Daniel. Big fucking deal, you know. But I remember that night, and it was a beautiful night. For once in my life I felt rich and cultured—classy, yes. I felt very, very classy. Whatever else happened between us, he gave me that, and I’m grateful, truly.

But I want a life that has plenty of room for things like “Linda Logan’s Party Pork Balls,” or the infamous “Leftover Ham Casserole.” Mmm…doesn’t your mouth just water? Wouldn’t my ex- just gag? You wonder why I’ve been reading recipes: there’s your answer. And mark my words, one of these days, the front page of the Times Food Section will have a photo of some delicious-looking steamy creamy noodle concoction with the headline: This Ain’t Your Grandma Jean’s Tuna Casserole. And once again, I’ll just roll my eyes, thinking, you fuckers…There’s just no winning.

Anyhow, a few weeks ago, I came across this recipe called “Soda Cracker Pie,” which I’d never noticed before. But it was the introduction that caught my eye: “Mother says that this really does taste like an apple pie—it was made a lot during The Depression and the recipe should be saved for posterity.” Honestly, until I read that, I’d never seen the poetry, never given any real thought to how much life a recipe can hold—not ours—well, not mine, at least. I mean, it’s been staring at me all along, and I’ve missed it this whole time. And that’s no one’s fault but my own.

So I’ve been thinking it’s probably time I learn to cook a few things. You know, just a few things I’ll willingly cook and eat—both, yes, that’s the trick. I’ve even got my eye on one of the recipes in my family cookbook, my mother’s salsa recipe. She’s been making that salsa since I was a kid, and I’ll tell you what, the woman makes some damn good salsa for a jueta. Of course it’s also one of the easiest recipes I can find, but I have to start somewhere, right? And who knows, maybe one of these days I’ll actually be able to make something Dan taught me to cook, too—but not today, no. Just not today.

Courtney Eldridge is the author of a short story collection, Unkempt. Her work has appeared in McSweeney’s, The New York Times Magazine, Nerve, and Salt Hill Journal. Her essay, Thanks, but No Thanks will appear in Jenni Ferrari-Adler’s forthcoming anthology, Alone in a Kitchen with an Eggplant

.