Editor’s Note: Flyer writers will occasionally share this space.
I have a few good cooks in my family. My grandpa mastered a recipe for red gravy, passed down through generations of Sicilians — yes, red gravy, not red sauce. My mom has her signature chocolate chip cookies; my dad has perfected his crab and crawfish boils, and he also makes red gravy now. And my sister, as much as I hate to admit (because of sibling rivalry and all that), can make a mean red velvet cupcake. Today, my cooking set off the smoke detector. I burnt butter. It’s fine. It’s whatever. I’m definitely not insecure about my apparent un-inherited culinary skills.
I was also told that the way I was holding the knife was wrong and that I was bound to slice a finger off. My “nice” cooking knife privileges were swiftly revoked before I was handed a less nice cooking knife. But it’s fine. It’s whatever. I definitely didn’t take it personally.
I also might have let a few chickpeas explode in my boyfriend’s oven. But, again, it’s fine. It’s whatever. He said it was, as he ushered me away from the kitchen. I’ll make it up to him one day, perhaps by sticking my head in the oven. To clean it.
These days, I’m trying something new: cooking something other than pasta with three ingredients. You see, I’ve got about three recipes I know — three recipes that, for the most part, are harder to mess up than to get right, yet somehow only come out right for me about 75 percent of time. But there’s only so much pasta a human can/should consume in a given week, at least that’s what the internet says, so I’ve enlisted my boyfriend into a Hello Fresh trial as advertised in every true crime podcast you could listen to. Three packages of ingredients come delivered to the door, and it’s up to us to assemble them into something edible. A bonding experience that hopefully won’t make him think less of me. It’s fine.
So far, I’m mostly the sous-chef … or the anti-sous-chef, more of a menace in the kitchen than anything. (It’s me. Hi. I’m the problem.) I’m not sure where my culinary incompetence stems from — if it’s a nature vs. nurture thing. I guess it doesn’t really matter because the problem is here nonetheless. Growing up, I never really wanted to be in the kitchen to learn to cook; that was my sister’s thing (and we couldn’t possibly like the same things, God forbid), and I was (am) a picky eater, so there was no way I was going to touch half of the stuff that was being prepared. Rolling up meatballs with my dad might sound like a charming generational memory, but that is one my sister can cherish ’cause I won’t, just won’t do that. I don’t eat meat, never had, couldn’t tell you why, but I can tell you that the thought of rolling ground beef between my knuckles makes my skin crawl. (It’s just one of those things, okay?)
But I eat seafood. And for most of my life that’s been the caveat that restarts people’s judgy hearts and unrolls their eyes after they hear that I don’t eat meat, especially since I’m from New Orleans, land of the seafood fanatics.
This is why I love Lent, which is coming up in about a week and means no meat on Fridays (or Ash Wednesday) for us Catholics. Growing up, Lent for me was a certified guarantee that every Friday no matter what we were eating as a family it was going to be something I liked. Alleluia. Red gravy without meatballs? Hell yeah! Boiled crabs? Music to my ears! Grilled cheese? Sure thing! Crawfish? Yes, please! Shrimp? You know it!
Sure, Lent is supposed to be a time to reflect on the ultimate sacrifice of Jesus Christ and to pray and make your own sacrifices, blah blah blah. Like, my dad would give up sweets for those 40 days, so that just meant more dessert for my sister and me (score!). I did do my own sacrifices, too, like giving up meat on Fridays (score!). For a few years, I gave up watching the Disney Channel. It was hard. I missed my Suite Life of Zack & Cody and Hannah Montana, but I lived. Obviously.
The idea of Lent is nice, though. It makes you see what you can live without, makes you respect the important things and practice gratefulness. Could you go without TikTok for 40 days? What about cursing at traffic? My fourth-grade teacher once told us we could also commit to do something extra every day instead, like saying the rosary (what fourth-grader is going to do that?) or picking up an extra chore (nah). I think my new 40-day commitment might be cooking a new recipe on the weekdays/not burning the house down (whichever ends up less ambitious). The great thing about it is that it’s only 40 days to give something up or add something new, and it’s only your relationship with God on the line, which is fine. It’s whatever. If you’re not Catholic, it’s a nice challenge for mindfulness.
But the best part of Lent has always been gathering for meals on Fridays, usually seafood boils back home in New Orleans, and since I’m not in New Orleans, these mostly edible meals with my boyfriend will do. It’s better than fine.