The Cookbook

The leather bound, deep red cookbook followed me from house to house. From the moment I left my childhood behind into the scary unknowns.

When I was 17, I moved into an old house with my brother and a friend I had known since pre school. The book found its first home tucked to the side of the kitchen bench or open next to the cooktop. The noise of the main road penetrating even back to the kitchen.

Months later it had found its way close to the beach. Salt precipitating on its cover. It stood upright on the low bookshelf. This house was brighter and eclectic. The bathroom brimming with hair sprays and moisturisers.

“Rose.. this book is so strange.” Mel remarked. She was my flatmate at the time. She looked down at the open page. “The pictures” she said as she gestured at the bottom of the page.

I laughed a little nervously “ahhh yeah, my mum made it for me when I left home”. I always knew my parents were kinda weird and hoped Mel didn’t judge me on that. The cookbook wasn’t standard, it was homemade.

Leaving home for the first time, Mum passed the book to me “you can have a taste of home, no matter if you’re in the land of yetis or bigfeets, or here with me as an old woman” she cackled, but her eyes were squinting, restraining tears, her arms stoically ridged, her hands balled.

In those early days, my homesickness was soothed by the familiar dishes. The memories of home as I wolfed them down after a long day after school or soccer. My mother remarked once that it took her hours to cook and only seconds to devour.

The book was quirky to say the least. My mother had painstakingly drawn rudimentary pictures of a snail moving around on each page. In MS Paint. I remember days after school as she hunched over the computer, getting frustrated with the unfamiliar technology. The mouse sometimes banging as she let out short frustrated sighs.

It came with me to the city, from one home claimed to another, sometimes displayed, sometimes left in a box. Stored with all my other sentimental keepsakes.

It was always with me but barely used anymore. The recipes I knew by heart now, and I needed no reference.

My mother told me of her diagnosis while I was hosting a dinner party. I took the call outside in the cold air. My demeanour not quite right coming back after my reality shifted.

The group went silent.

For no good reason, I felt embarrassed.

I pushed the impending grief down and stabbed at the sautéed green beans. I drank too much wine that night.

In the bathroom I googled “How many stages after stage 4 cancer?”

I broke down later, after the guests left.

Through breathless sobs I told my husband I thought she was going to die. He stated “You don’t know that”. He seemed annoyed.

His emotional bandwidth stalling when things got difficult.

I kept my fears to myself.

I held her hand in her bed during those long hours of darkness. She wanted to be at home and it was my turn to watch her. I couldnt sleep, her breathing had become too ragged. Then her last breath. The oxygen tube uselessly hissing for nobody. I couldn’t bring myself to turn it off. What if she still needs it?

I couldn’t look at the book that I had promised to transcribe for distant family members at the funeral. It was too fresh. The book, too personal.

After my divorce, the book came with me to my new townhouse. This time I was going to accept myself, all of it, the absurdity I had repressed. My warts. My beauty. Thoughts and expression. I went through a box, wondering what to do with certificates and trophies for a girl I no longer was.

The cookbook had been waiting patiently in the bottom of that long unpacked box. Still vibrant and in good condition considering the years of neglect.

I flicked through the pages smiling at her blocky pictures of the snail trying to cross a road. Some pages stained with splashes of oil and mysterious red substances. Spaghetti bolognese, Chinese Chicken, Nanas stew. Please don’t judge, the Chinese Chicken recipe only having soy sauce as the “exotic” ingredient.

One page was pristine white, no smudges of flour or menacing splashes. It had instructions on how to cook a roast.

I hadn’t needed this before.

Cooking a Roast

It doesn’t matter what time it is put the roast on at 4:30pm at 200 deg in a roasting pan with a slurp of olive oil. Then open a bottle of wine. Taste the wine several times until it becomes agreeable. Open a second bottle of wine and leave it to stand.

Look at the roast at 5:15pm or there about and assess its cooking qualities. Finish tasting the first bottle of wine and look to the second for an argument.

Peel potatoes and think of roasting plan- which steamed vegies? Upon successful completion of this thought celebrate with a swig out of the second bottle of wine.

Put potatoes snugly around the roast then try to remember the celebrated thought by poking around the fridge. Pour a glass of wine for tasting and take another swig from the bottle. Prepare the vegetables then pour another glass of wine for tasting.

Taste both glasses alternatively while aimlessly wandering around kitchen. Forget about the roast until 6:00pm.

Debate. Assess. Bump up the heat. Taste the last of the wine . Turn potatoes 3/4 done. Steam vegetables furiously on high. Throw empty wine bottle at the cat.

Panic with gravy and uneven heating. Remove roast and snug spuds and serve with vegetables and gravy.

My face was wet with a goofy smile.

She was not a good cook. My father often told me a story of their early romance. She had mashed the potatoes directly into the water in which they were boiled. She had served the “mashed potatoes” and my dad had tried to consume the starchy water making strained noises of appreciation.

The cookbook now stands proudly on the kitchen bench. I don’t need it, but from time to time, I will read her instructions and footer notes just to smile. To live in her warm love that was forever and always.

I imagine an archeologist finding it years from now and wondering about the brilliant, funny author.

My mother.