food diary

a week of eating

November 18

H’s birthday. J and I planned a birthday dinner. Or J planned and I let her, weighing in when I had an actual opinion (pasta alla vodka over eggplant rollatini for the main course), but mostly letting her do her thing, watching her scroll through her Instagram saved recipes until the right ones jumped out. She made a grocery list and I shopped for the meal, buying as I was told (big, fat rigatoni) and double-checking with J how much romaine we needed for the caesar. I arrived home and spread everything out. Everything had its place except for the five lemons, which we puzzled over together. What were they for again? 

J led the cooking, too. I rough-chopped romaine while she shaved fennel precisely with a knife. I boiled water and preheated the oven, snatching dirtied cutting boards out from under her as soon as she was done and cleaning them while she stirred tomato paste around our big yellow dutch oven. I played, for the most part, a supporting role. Which I was happy with. This is not how I cook with everyone. The dynamic shifts based on knowledge of each other and each others’ taste, on who chose the recipe, on who we are cooking for and at what time and which of our kitchen’s we are in. Josie has more particular taste than I do, and is a better cook than me, so I followed her instructions with the faith that they would yield a delicious result. 

Which they did. J mashed anchovies into an oily, fishy paste and then frothed up that bright yellow yolk with lemon and mustard. She ran to do her makeup and had me watch the deepening red of the tomato paste. Handing me back my phone, which she had commandeered for the recipe, she told me to add half the nip of vodka when the paste started browning at the bottom. Once I had finished deglazing (a word I finally recently learned the definition of), I could add the glopping stream of heavy cream mixed with boiling pasta water. 

Guests arrived and we were still cooking. I had taken a nap before we began, and J had taken a shower. Instead of starting cooking at 5, we started at 6, such is life. The guests, arriving on time at 7, were gracious. 

The table was set. H and I had found this translucent calf-brown runner at the Dumbo flea market that day. It had embroidered flowers bedazzled with little gems and was only 5 dollars. In the center was a bouquet that H made herself, after her mother she said, with marigolds (cempasúchil! I kept saying, day of the dead flowers!) and magenta carnations and sprigs of tiny pink (for her mother, she said) and bowing bells of white. There were home-made margaritas in real margarita glasses with fresh-squeezed lime juice and a tajín rim. There were five champagne flutes, each a different color glass. Taper candles rose out of their gold-and-black candlesticks. Then the food: the fennel and romaine caesar waiting in a sprawling white bowl. The roasted eggplant arranged in rings, starred with dollops of greek yogurt and sprinkled with lemon zest. And the pasta. Those big fat noodles coated in vodka sauce, its improbable orange, with basil leaves rising like wings. 

We ate like adults, magnificent. Over the strength of the margaritas we talked about what we loved about H. Everyone was happy, dressed up, we rose to the occasion of the food and the table. We sat there till after 11, until J and I had to admit we weren’t going to the party we had said we may go to. We had stretched and kneaded ideas by then, we were on to matters of the heart. Everyone was honest. Everyone listened well. By the time we all hugged goodbye, everyone was full, I felt, but not heavy. Lightened. 

November 19

Was a Sunday. I flew to Mexico. The flight was direct, 5ish hours, though it felt longer. I had the whole row to myself, but had forgotten to pack snacks. I flew Viva Aerobus, the Mexican equivalent of Spirit Airlines, and every food item cost money. So I sat, unemployed, trying to clear stress from my body by watching the ways that the clouds changed and cleared. I tried reading, tried podcasts, tried sleeping. I made eye contact with a man in the last row on my way back from the bathroom and he had the flight attendant try to send me a tequila. I said no. 

To leave New York, I had to take the LIRR to a JFK shuttle to another shuttle between terminals. When I arrived in Mexico City, after getting through immigration, C was waiting for me. She opened the backseat of the car and I got in next to her, looked forward to see her mother and sister in the front. On the plane I was worried about this moment. I thought that the thrust back into Spanish would exhaust me, and that I would feel confined to a version of myself so much less capable of expression. But I was relieved. I was with a family. 

At home, she said, were two options. She had baked chicken thighs, the part of the bird I prefer, with orange peels. Or her abuela, who knew I was arriving late, had made me cochinita pibil, a kind of slow-cooked pork with achiote. I chose the thighs. Eating them over rice, I talked to C and her sister and I thought of the borrowed house in Marin in March where J and M and I made citrus chicken thighs in a ceramic baking dish that I later broke the handle off of and had to replace. I remembered, too, the feeling I felt so much last year, the feeling of being at home in a foreign country. A feeling made possible, in my experience, only by love. 

November 20

Quesadillas for breakfast. C’s mother makes fun of me, her whole family does, for the volume of quesadillas I eat every time I’m in their house. I have them for breakfast as often as possible, and for snacks. We had to restock tortillas twice in the week I was there. 

There is this cheese in Mexico specifically for quesadillas. It is a perfect cheese. It claims to be manchego but I don’t think anyone in whatever region of Spain manchego is from would recognize it as such. It comes pre-sliced and perfectly tortilla-sized. It melts exquisitely. It’s chewy and salty and spreads to the edges of the tortilla, crusting on the square grill pan. It is, apparently, impossible to get outside of Mexico. 

For lunch, I warmed C’s abuela’s cochinita and ate it, non-traditionally, with sauteed vegetables, rice, avocado, and lime. 

November 21

We buy a frozen turkey and put it in the fridge. 

November 22 

It is 10 am. According to the internet, the turkey should be defrosted now, after a day in the fridge. Without inspecting, I cut open the packaging. It is still frozen. Now it is uncovered. It is at room temperature, which is a dangerous thing for a bird to be while it thaws, according to the internet. We need to re-wrap it and submerge it in cold water. We hold up a gallon-sized plastic bag. Too small. We fish out a giant blue bag, slightly sticky. Decide against. We try not to spiral about poisoning C’s entire family. 

I go to Walmart Express looking for giant ziplock bags. I end up with a plastic bag designed for birds in the oven (?), which surrounds the turkey completely. We go up to the roof and try to find a way to seal the drain on the big metal sink. Unsuccessful, we bleach a bucket clean, fill it with cold water, and place the wrapped turkey in it. We change the water every 30 minutes. 

The plan is to brine overnight. My step-dad suggests a wet brine, which means we need a vessel big enough to fit the turkey. There is no such pot. C’s abuela, the maker of the cochinita, thinks she has something, but when the time comes, she can’t find it. The time came when I was at a haircut appointment and C had half an hour before physical therapy. There was a degree of panic. The brining liquid was combining on the stove top, the salt dissolving and the herbs stewing. C had to leave; I was supposed to stay up in Roma so that C and her sister could meet me afterward in Juárez for tlayudas and gelato. Instead, I ubered back to Coyoacán, running into, incredibly, an old coworker crossing the street. C’s abuela found a big blue tub. I waited for the liquid to cool to room temperature, stripped the turkey of its plastic, and bathed it in brine. The turkey went in the fridge. 

We decided against returning to Juárez—I couldn’t stomach another 40 minutes in the car. Instead, we walked into Coyoacán center to a tlayuda place none of us had tried before. We passed a very cute cafe. We ate tlayudas and tortilla soup and drank margaritas. We forgave the turkey.

November 23 

Quesadillas for breakfast again. At 10 am, I took the turkey out of the fridge and poured its liquid down the drain. I put it back in the fridge, letting its skin crisp and dry before roasting. 

While the turkey dried, C and I began on the sides. We chopped sweet potatoes for a casserole. I trimmed and peeled brussel sprouts. We put on a Spotify-made playlist of folk classics. I thought about the previous thanksgiving, which also took place in this apartment. R was there, and A, huge portions of my life then. S and C were in from California. R made sweet potato casserole, which I had never to my knowledge had before. I made really good mashed potatoes. There was pie, a group effort I think. We didn’t eat until late because I didn’t properly defrost the chicken, which we had in lieu of turkey. When we did, we said our thank-yous mostly in English, and R and I both talked about being here, but being home. 

This year, “Who Knows Where The Time Goes” played while C chopped sweet potatoes and I cried into her shoulder that I missed R. As a kid, I never understood why the holidays were hard for people. Now I do. Every year so much changes, and then you arrive at a day that’s a mirror of the year before. And some people aren’t there. And your life looks entirely different. And did you really know that, when you chose it? 

We combined flour, salt, baking powder, sugar, butter, and milk to make biscuits. We timed all the oven things perfectly. It is time for the turkey. We rub it with butter and garlic. I stuff it with onion and apples and herbs. I tie its legs with twine. It is ready to roast. 

The smell is incredible. C’s abuelas arrive first, as we are finishing up the mashed potatoes (semi-failure, not completely smooth) and the second batch of biscuits. They try to help. We make everyone hot toddies, which no one has had before. We lay out on a white tablecloth a foil-covered turkey, congri made by one of C’s grandmothers, and lasagna made by the other. We arrange her aunt’s salad alongside our brussel sprouts, which are squeezed with lemon and a surprise standout. The leaves, plucked off the cores, are salted and crispy. On a separate table, we lay the pies that C’s sister and cousin made, cherry and apple and pumpkin. 

C stands at the head of the table, leading her family in their first Thanksgiving. I was supposed to do this, but I chickened out at the last minute. She announces that everyone has to go around and say what they’re grateful for, and we all do. Everyone loves the turkey. It is not poisonous, and not at all dry.

 November 27

On the plane, somewhere over the American South, I extract tupperware from my backpack. In it is a quartered quesadilla, the cheese not hot anymore but still sticky. On top are rolled up slices of turkey and jamón. C had packed it for me at 4 am that day. I imagine her thin fingers twisting up red spirals of pork and placing them in a perfect row. I think of the precision with which she presses a knife through a quesadilla.

On Friday, after our marathon day hosting thanksgiving, C and I talked about how cooking is both a labor and an art. I think about that at 30,000 feet. I think about the meals I’ve had that week, those I’ve made and those I’ve eaten. Cooking is also, more than anything else, a form of care.