Therapeutic Cooking

I get in the car, stinking of hot oil, fried chicken, and whatever else got on me during my longer-than-normal shift that day. My legs are cramping, I have a mild headache, and I’m still irritated from being shorthanded at work and trying to figure out how to help cover shifts at work after too many people have called in because they were sick… or because they didn’t realize that their shift started and they needed to be in for said shift, despite being told when their shift was. I don’t know it but I’m going to get in the shower later in the evening and feel a mild stinging sensation as warm water hits several new grease burns on my forearms. I sigh and rub my temple, and my husband Pat looks at me.

“How can I help?”

“Can we go to the grocery store, and I’ll cook something new tonight?” I ask after a moment.

“Sure,” he says, and starts the car. I smile at him a little, turn on music via my phone, put in my headphones, and close my eyes.

You would think after a day of cooking and serving food, I would hate to be in the kitchen. I don’t. When I’m cooking, I get focused, calm, almost Zen-like internally. I love cooking and food, and the act of cooking is relaxing to me. Growing up, food was one of the few non-negative aspects of my childhood. My family rarely argued or fought when food was on the dinner table, and I loved making dinner with my mom. Food was and remains an indulgence to me, whether I’m eating pancakes, or some fancy steak at a nice restaurant somewhere.

I also love cooking shows (especially the competitive ones) and travel shows that feature the exploration of various world cuisines. I’ll spend hours watching old episodes of cooking shows and finding new ones. I also spend a shamefully large amount of time on recipe blogs and websites and have a shelf full of recipe books. I try new recipes and cooking techniques all year long.

We get home and I put the bags of groceries on the counter, go into the bedroom and change out of my work clothes, then go back into the kitchen. After taking some over-the-counter pain medication, I preheat the oven to 400 degrees (Fahrenheit), pull out the skirt steaks from one of the grocery bags, and put them in a plastic container to marinate them. I salt and pepper the meat, then add chili powder, minced garlic, lime juice, and lime zest to the container, shaking it well and setting the meat aside to absorb the flavors.

I stop for a moment to turn on a cooking show to listen to, then turn back, pulling potatoes out of a bucket that we keep them in. I scrub the dirt off them with cool water and one of those scrub sponges. I then put one of the potatoes between a pair of wooden skewers and carefully cut the potato into thin slices, stopping when my knife touches the sticks (someone might recognize this as a hassle back). I repeat with the other potatoes I washed, and then toss each one in oil, salting and peppering them as well. I put them in the oven to bake.

“How’s it going?” my husband asks as I pull the cast iron skillet down from its hook.

“Not bad. Better.”

“Good.”

I smile at him and turn to the stove, setting the skillet on the large burner and putting oil in it before turning on the heat. I wait until the oil is shimmering and a few drops of water dropped into the pan causes the oil to sizzle. I carefully put the steaks in the pan, drizzling the marinade onto the meat and then taking the container to the sink.

I cook the steak until its medium rare, making sure to flip it in the pan so both sides brown nicely and switching them around in the pan, ensuring even cooking for both pieces of meat. By now, my kitchen is smelling divine, and Pat walks over to look at the steak.

“Nice,” he says. “Want me to cut it?”

“Let it rest first,” I respond, hugging him. “Thank you.”

He hugs me back and asks if I’m feeling better, and I nod in response. My shoulders, which tend to hold most of my tension when I’m stressed, have finally relaxed, and though I still feel tired, I no longer have a headache and I’m excited for dinner.

I sit down for a bit to watch the show I had put on and laugh at a joke the host says. After about ten minutes, I get up and check the potatoes, pressing on them with my fingers gently to check how done they are. Pleased with their firm-tender feel, I pull them out and let them cool for a moment and start chopping tomatoes and slicing onion and avocado for toppings. I ask my husband to slice the meat, as he’s very good at the task, and to slice it thinly. While I watch him do so, I take a small piece of the meat and try it. It is tender and flavorful, not too spicy, and I take a moment to really savor the bite.

When he’s done, I take the steak pieces and put them in the potatoes, so that the steak chunks are in between each section of sliced potato. As soon as I finish, I sprinkle a little cheese on them and let it melt a bit. Then, I tell my husband dinner is ready and we top our individual potato-steaks with fresh cheese, tomatoes, onions, and avocado.

As we sit down to eat, I reflect a little on my day and what I do for a living. My job is not a bad one, and most days pass without incident. I don’t hate what I do and have worked at the same place for over ten years. That doesn’t mean I don’t have bad days, and I’m thankful that I love cooking enough to stick around and to continue working there, and that cooking is something I can do at the end of my day to relax.

I ask my husband how it tastes, and he tells me that if I were to ever get into an amateur cooking competition, I should present the hassle back steak potatoes. I smile back at him and keep eating. The food is delicious.