Warning: Potentially triggering and detailed content in this post. I tried to insert a “read more” tag after the “And yet…” subtitle, but please do not read past there if you feel uncomfortable
I love cooking. As a child, one of the ways I got personal attention and approval was through the cooking process. There was a wealth of knowledge handed down to me as I sat or stood in the kitchen with my aunts, uncles, grandparents, and yes parents learning basic food preparation and storage skills.
When I think of the smells in my grandparents’ kitchen, I feel safe.
When I think of standing on a chair stirring sauce in a pot with my uncle, I feel loved.
When I try to remember how to “properly” marinate meat to get the tender, melt-in-your mouth feel, my mind draws a blank.
When I try to chop common vegetables like carrots, celery, onions, or broccoli, my hands start to shake.