Nervous Baker

I have been thinking a lot about food lately. Well, actually, nourishment. It’s no wonder. The garden is on the verge of bursting with fresh produce. We harvested the first of the cucumbers, zucchini this week along with garlic scapes and giant zinnias. It was so rewarding and joyful to find this ready bounty hiding among the leaves; to see the fruits of our early spring labors coming to fruition. The other reason though, is that when I am stressed, I cook. Both my in-laws, fully vaccinated, aged 87 and 90, have Covid. Prior to this, my mother-in-law was already battling a serious infection in her back resulting in surgery. For several weeks now I have been cooking and feeding them to be sure their burden is eased and they have nourishing, fresh food to aid their well being.

I am a “nervous baker.” By this time in the stress of the week I should be in production of brownies and cookies. In general I don’t enjoy baking. I enjoy cooking. I am scared of yeast. The fine balance of so few ingredients; flour, salt, a fat and maybe some eggs or milk, is not my forte. Years ago I made mouth watering clover leaf yeast rolls and some excellent cookies. But that was so much effort when I was working all the time and we just needed healthy food in our fridge. Between my baking skills never really getting honed and being overweight, concentrating on baking never seemed like the best use of my time. But when I’m nervous, I bake. I don’t necessarily even need to eat it all; I just need to bake it.

This nervousness and worry somehow manifests in a default scarcity that requires food. Sick people don’t eat much, but I will spoon all the nourishing bone broth, nutrient rich slow cooked greens, carefully boned chicken and thoughtfully poached fresh fruit, into their shrunken tummies like a momma bird feeding her babies. I pull out the Dutch oven and begin: kale and collards with diced sweet potatoes, curry seasoning and coconut milk; braised local organic chicken with fresh herbs, tomatoes and a rich, sweet balsamic vinegar simmered until it’s falling apart into a delicious and aromatic stew. Chili gumbo based with rich beef stock, simmered with lean ground beef, all the fresh vegetables I can cram in the pot, cans of diced tomatoes, bay leaves and 2 quarts of farm fresh okra frozen after last years’ harvest go into refrigerator’s in two homes and some to the deep freeze. Our first zucchini became a family favorite: dark chocolate zucchini cake courtesy of an old Southern Living Magazine recipe. I’m finally going to try and make that gluten free yellow cake I have been considering for months next. Small slices of sweet things taste good to them both and are a good vehicle for piling on the fresh berries filled with nutrients.

My mother-in-law is in the hospital. The food is abysmal and she has no appetite, but she is eating fresh cantaloupe cups with each meal. That melon along with a drink box of Glucerna is about all she wants right now. My father-in-law is home, sleeping nearly round the clock, battling chills and wracked with pain from deep, endless, non-productive coughing that we pray doesn’t fracture his ribs and excruciating head pain. I make soup; a simple meal to reheat in a mug, easily delivering concentrated nourishment to his 90 year body. He’s a strong and generally healthy man, but this virus seems intent on wrestling his physical well-being to the ground.

Future recipes lie in wait: chicken and rice for when Vera comes home from the hospital. This weekend I’ll harvest basil from her garden and mine, putting back pesto in the freezer for coating grilled or roasted summer veggies, or for making salads with the cherry tomatoes she longs for. I’m watching our bush cucumbers closely. They are covered in blossoms. Vera wants me to make her Aunt Goldie’s bread and butter pickles this summer. She unearthed the recipe for me. I pray she will feel well enough to sit in the kitchen and guide me through it, making a new memory together while she visits an old happy one.

This year my in-laws have been teaching me how to make scrapple, an old family recipe that is a type of cornmeal mush rich with pork scraps. They make it look easy. Vera can taste every individual herb and adjust the balance. I cannot. Too much thyme, not thick enough, simmer it longer, add more savory. I am certain I’ll never get it just right. Like my great-grandmother’s biscuits, it’s far more feel than recipe. Like my mother-in-law says, you can follow a recipe but in the end it will differ from person to person because “It’s all in the way you wiggle your butt.”

I can’t help myself. Between the battle to sync up communication between medical providers and family, attend Vera’s hospital bed, advocate for Bill’s ongoing medical care while he toughs out Covid at home, I can’t let the cooking go. I did acquiesce today to common sense and brain saving planning by putting in a Sam’s Club order, including some fresh made meals. A cook at home chicken pot pie will go to my in-laws, Greek salad, chicken enchiladas and rotisserie chicken for us.

I used to tolerate this kind of stress slightly better. Or maybe I didn’t. As a medical social worker, my ability to navigate complex medical situations has always been superior. I don’t get my wings flapping or become unnerved by arrogant physicians or ratchety nurses. But this is different. It’s my family. I did the same thing when my dad was sick. I would cook and deliver food to my parents. I would slave in the kitchen to make them healthy and nourishing things. They could be things that I knew they had made themselves, or that I knew they would like. But they complained and rejected. My mom’s eating disorder kicked in and she refused to eat as her stress increased and she was offended by the idea that they might need food in the refrigerator even though she constantly complained about my father demanding meals. Due to vascular dementia, Dad was impulsive and could not switch gears from the idea of what he wanted to eat to what was delivered and easy to reheat from the fridge I once attempted to keep stocked. Finally, I gave up. Mom was happier complaining and making due; Dad was happier when his impulses were not interfered with. I decided that keeping my own household fed and watered and eating as well as we could was the more necessary kitchen requirement.

This time around I’m cooking, but I’m also not shy of gas station take out Krispy Krunchy chicken served with a homemade pot of greens, or Sam’s Club enchilada’s served with local beans soaked and cooked here at home along with a salad. I appreciate that my in-laws appreciate my offerings. They treat me like a daughter. Nonetheless, I am still aware of my outlaw status! I respect them, their privacy and their choices. I can’t engage in the level of advocacy and private matters that they trust their own children with and that is appropriate. I respect my role of supporting them, standing beside my husband, supporting him in care of them. I can love them, and I can feed them.

My hubby texted while I was writing to say that his mom asked him to bring her some of his dad’s homemade bread toasted with peanut butter when he came to the hospital this morning. I’m thrilled! Let the nourishing recommence! Now I have to stop writing because it’s time to stir the simmering pot on the stove and the oven timer has just gone off.