I am exhausted.
It seems I tell myself I can do ten times more things than I can actually accomplish, and then I melt into a trembling pile of jello. I’m telling you, I am ready for jello.
But why?
I drove home from Texas Sunday and Monday. As I drove I imagined all the things I would do Monday evening. But I collapsed. I partially unpacked, straightened up this and that. I dislike the last leg of the trip, from Nashville to Knoxville. It is a beautiful drive. But at the end of a long drive, the steep grades, and, I would swear, the craziest drivers of the trip, make it a stressful couple of hours.
You know, when I want to go a nearby city, for shopping or whatever, I would rather drive to Atlanta than to Nashville. And Atlanta traffic is no picnic either.
But why am I still tired? I can admit it is a happy kind of tired.
Wednesday night was my book club meeting. It was at my house, and I cooked mostly Japanese, but not a traditional Japanese meal. The book, Palaver by Bryan Washington, was set in Japan, and a lot of food was involved in the story, but not really in a traditional Japanese setting. In fact I liked the way the author wove food into the story.
But back to me. When I chose this book and this month, my head was off in the clouds, thinking I had 10,000 hours. I did not. Tuesday I planned the menu and shopped. Wednesday I cooked. Wednesday I also had a stiff back, sciatica, severe pain in my left leg where my muscles had tightened up, probably due to the back issues, but also because I had been twisting it under me. Oh, and my left foot was numb. Just a little glitch. But it did slow me down.
I loved the shopping. I do love grocery shopping. I actually love exploring stores, and I wasn’t really exploring that much because I had a long list. But I had to go to 6 or 7 stores to find what I wanted, and it took 5 hours. That may have contributed to my back issues.
I usually go too far with the pre-meal snacks, tending to cook enough to feed the Russian army. This time I was more restrained. Appetizers were breadsticks and deviled eggs. I wanted something Jamaican because of the Jamaican heritage of the two protagonists. I originally was going to make some kind of fritter and sauce. Instead I made deviled eggs with a sweet/spicy chutney mixed into the filling. I topped half of them with hot peppers and half with quarters of sweet pickled grapes (those just happened to be in the fridge). The breadsticks were made from the soft roll recipe from The Art of Gluten-Free Bread. Rather than using za-atar, as stated in the recipe, I improvised a topping by crushing up roasted seaweed snacks (gim) sesame seeds, and shichimi togarashi seasoning. I brushed the bread with a mixture of white miso and sesame oil to get the seasoning to adhere before baking. I rather liked the combination.
For a first course we had an almost clear miso soup. My original intention had been for a clear broth, but by the time I got to it, my plans had changed. I was having too much trouble standing. It tasted just as good. I added tiny little enokidaki to each soup bowl.
Everything else was served family style.
The cold dishes included a pickle made from matchsticks of carrot and daikon radish in the proportion 1:2. I also made a salad of cucumbers and wakame seaweed. There was a cold greens dish. I used a mix of spinach, kale, and chard, which was blanched then cooled in ice water. The chilled greens were then marinated and served in a bowl of iced dashi. That was the only recipe from my new Japanese cookbook, Konbini, which I love, but did not end up using much for this meal. The greens were served with a miso dressing. The dressing was good, but I loved the dash-marinated greens on their own; I’ve been finishing them off all week and think they should be an easy household staple.
For hot dishes we had halibut steamed in sake, rice, and two additional vegetables. The most time-consuming consisted of fried Japanese eggplant halves that had been scored in a tiny crosshatch pattern, and then fried. They were served with miso dressing. These were fabulous, and beautiful, worth the time spent scoring the skin. The final hot dish was a quick pan sauté of shimeji mushrooms in butter and sake.
I was very happy with the meal, and happy to be cooking, even if I was tired, but I did poop out earlier than I had hoped. Luckily my friends helped me get things out and I am grateful. Aside from driving myself cuckoo with the cooking, I am a casual hostess. The point of a party is to have fun after all.
Oh yes, we ended up with a not very sweet lemon-poppyseed cake and sorbetto, either mango or lemon. I meant to go out buy some Asian ice cream, but, well, that didn’t happen either.
At one point I thought of taking pictures of all this fabulous food, and a part of me wishes I had because I thought the dishes were pretty. I loved making this meal, and I wondered if a photo record would be nice. But another part of me thinks of all the dinner parties over the years and how few pictures I’ve taken. Yes I take pictures for cookbook club dishes, but otherwise I forget. Food is ephemeral and yet not. I remember the food but mostly the food is just a vehicle for the conversations and companionship. I love cooking but it is never really about the food. Mostly I remember the conversation and the good times.
Now, here we are at the weekend and almost all evidence of the party has been put away, but my memories survive. I’ve always felt that photos are not an adequate substitute for memories; when I spend time taking a picture I am not spending time living in the moment, feeling the feelings. But I am not a good photographer and I am a good feeler of feelings. My perspective is angled differently I suppose, taking time to take a photograph is a distraction, like looking at myself and my life in third person.
Everything I made is simple in and of itself. Making so many dishes was not simple. Yes, overachiever speaking. I wonder why I don’t make these dishes more often. Perhaps, having been reacquainted with them, I will. I’ve fallen in love with dashi again. And we are heading into vegetable season soon, this meal has rekindled my excitement in the kitchen.
It seems I don’t need to remember the specific moment — it is already gone, fleeting. I need to hold on to the threads of where it takes me.