The kitchen is really the only place in our new digs that has anything that I recognize, and so far, it's the best part of the house. Cooking in it has been the only thing that makes me feel okay about life right now. Alana and I are calling it quits for the time being, my grandmother might be seriously sick again, and I'm back here to patch a life together that I'm not entirely sure that I want but that I have to carry out anyhow for my own well-being (personal and financial). I can't say cooking has exactly staved off the loneliness and existential confusion, but it's been an outlet for restless energy and a reminder of what I enjoy. And hey, at least I can feed myself.
I got home on Sunday, and as I may have mentioned, the house is fucking EMPTY. Unable to unpack, I paced up, down and through the vacant rooms. I looked around the kitchen, opening each cupboard one-by-one to see where everything was. The refrigerator had a few miscellaneous items, mostly dairy and dairy-like products: milk, soy milk, coffee mate, Joe's yogurt, and a plastic to-go box filled with about a dozen french fries, most likely a remnant of Jesse's presence (and a reminder of his absence). My can of ground ginger didn't make it over, my punishment for not being around for cleaning shit out of the fridge at Veteran. I found one cabinet filled with my spices, and was hit with the distinctive, strong, and now comforting smell of hing. I saw my lentils sitting rolled up with a clothes pin holding the bag shut, and I realized that was about the only thing in the damn house of any nutritional value, meaning that's what I'd cook.
After eating a bowl of cereal, I got to the lentils. Cooking them is a long process. You have to rinse them, soak them, and even still, they take hours. So, I built the rest of my day around the process. I sat, worked, walked over to Fairfax high, hopped the fence, shot a few hoops, and prepared the lentils in between. They simmered for over 3 hours, 1.5 cup black lentils and about 11 cups of water (ratio is 1 cup lentils to 7 cups water) with a bunch of toasted cumin, mustard seed, corriander and salt. This batch turned out to be one of my best (slow cooking and whole, dried red peppers did the trick, I think).
Now, this isn't a chicken soup-type story. The food didn't make everything all better. Daal didn't cure mid-twenties, suburban existential confusion. They did, however, at the most basic level, give me something to do, something in my history that has always made me feel better (both in the process and in the end result). The smells didn't carry me on a wave of nostalgia, but they did make the house smell homey, and they made me think about cooking them over the last few years: when I started making them at Brandeis, preparing them at Chestnut Ave. in Boston when I was super busy at my internship, and when I came back to Los Angeles at Veteran. They've become personal. They happen at home.
I made this today, and I'm calling it Huevos Hindùes, which is leftover lentils and rice mixed together on a bed of sauteéd frozen green beans from Trader Joes with a poached egg and red pepper. It was pretty satisfying, by no means perfect. A bit like the new house, I guess. And though nothing has changed in my mind (I still feel pretty heartbroken and confused), the food will take care of me the rest of the week. No matter what is going on in my external or internal world, a guy's gotta eat.
So for the moment, at least I have a full stomach.
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