A Recipe

 

Today is just any Tuesday in November. I took care of the pets and cooked and played in my kitchen. There’s nothing terribly different about today. The only difference happened when I stupidly checked my Facebook Instant Messenger and saw your name at the top with a forward of a TikTok video about God.

 

I didn’t click on your message to find out what the video said. I just blocked you, albeit belatedly. I thought I had removed your back-alley chat method five months ago when I said, “Don’t speak to me again, unless it is in the form of an apology.” I remember screaming, “Go fuck yourself!” at the top of my lungs while I defiled the sanctity of the haven I created for myself on my deck. I remember saying those words that mild Monday in June.

I assume you also remember hearing those painfully screamed three words.

You complain of “senior moments,” but that should stick out for, even you. Credit to you, those moments occur less often than another “senior scrapbook arsonist” that I know.

 

Today I made a loaded potato soup with potato wedges, on the side. The ingredients were about to spoil, and I never waste food. I think you’d have liked the recipe. I wanted to send it to you in the state that almost died without you, if the state reads me, someday.

I want to send you most of my good recipes. This one used Velveeta, which I shamefully have used in macaroni and cheese, over the past few months. I can’t believe I now use Velveeta! It really melts easier, in case you end up with frequently dry macaroni and cheese.

Do you make macaroni and cheese? I really don’t remember, anymore.

 

Today, I shared a soup recipe I created with around nine thousand followers on Twitter. I’d have preferred to share it with you, I promise. I’d have told you that if the consistency of your potato soup was too thin, one can simply add dried potato flakes to bulk up the soup. It’s quite easy when you figure out the science of cooking.

 

Speaking to a friend today, he commented, “You must be an amazing chef.” I can now safely say that I am a very decent chef. I speak about food like it is royalty invited to my home for dinner. I’m insanely passionate about all aspects of cooking, I hope you’d see.

 

Some of my favorite dishes remind me of you. Usually, I’ll be making a roast or something that happens in a crockpot and it makes me remember what Sunday afternoons used to smell like.

Some of those dishes are my favorite ones. Most of my family, now, does not like pot roast, but I adore it and it feels especially wrong without tapioca pearls because that’s what I was taught.

 

I remember being in my first kitchen at age 21. I suddenly realized I had no idea how to cook for my husband. I didn’t know how to cook and it was my job to do that, now.

Thank God the internet existed in 2000, because I had no skill set to guide me. Thank goodness for YouTube videos and printed recipes I could study. I studied recipes; I didn’t READ recipes. I learned technique. I learned fundamentals. I became quite talented.

I make my own cooking videos for strangers, these days. I found perfect strangers to guide me so I like to pay it forward where I can. I don’t have many followers, but I know you’re not one of them. I haven’t made one for the soup recipe. Your spontaneous TikTok video derailed my afternoon plans.

 

The passion I have for food, Mom, I only really felt that passion these past several months. I’ve been self-isolating from the other kids you and Dad made. When I told you five months ago that you were dead to me until you apologized, I had to separate myself from my siblings, too. Do you know how lonely Maryland feels when only an hour away, I could physically touch my brother and sister? Do you know how alone I am, Mom?

 

I could not sort out which family members are safe and which are hurtful. I still don’t know if needing to be apart from my siblings is permanent. They could just be collateral damage from having to walk away from you. I have all the time in the world, but I still haven’t figured out if they’re safe or not.

 

Mom, I have more time than I ever intended to have when I was a nurse. My days aren’t like they used to be. The energy I gave to my patients, I now give to my life and it shows up most flavorful in my kitchen. I wish I could cook for you in my new kitchen. I never got to even show you my new kitchen, Mom.

 

Time has given me a lot of gifts over the past 15 months. I wasted my time before then. I remember being taught about being a good steward. I was a good manager of many things, but I was letting my life slip away. The reason my food is so much better now, Mom, is because I learned how to be a good steward of my time and my energy.

 

Mom, I think I turned the food in my home into a hyperfocus of mine. My therapist tells me that many humans on the autism spectrum become very talented in their passions because they hyperfocus on their passions and master them. I don’t know the correct way to tell a mother their youngest daughter has autism, but I only learned I have it last week so I haven’t decided if you even get to know, yet. I am autistic as hell, Mom. I learned how to mask, mimic, and assimilate from you. My ability to mask and cover-up is exceptionally high. I should thank you someday, I suppose.

 

I’m almost 44 and my ability to master food makes perfect sense. A lot of things make sense now that I’ve had enough time to stop and smell what was cooking in the kitchen. I do hope that you try to make the loaded potato soup recipe sometime though, Mom. It is really a nice recipe.