"Don't come in the kitchen if you're not ready."
In high school, one of my friends offered a blunt spin on, "If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen," saying, "Don't come in the kitchen if you're not ready." We immediately knew what she meant at the time, and our friend group quickly adopted her wording whenever we wanted to say, "hey, if the pressure is too much for you..."
I thought of her sage version during a traditional Khmer cooking class this week.
The time I dedicate to cooking for myself at home is around four seconds, where I decide between using a knife or a spoon for my banana and peanut butter. The time I spend obsessing over food itself, however, takes up most of the other seconds in the day. Food is just one variable in a constant equation of maximizing energy while minimizing calories. Counting calories consumed, or calories burned, or calories lamented, I'm always counting. I hate math.
During this cooking class, I found that there isn't a lot of room for calorie-counting when you're desperate to impress a five-foot Cambodian woman version of Gordon Ramsay.
The day began by accompanying our instructor (henceforth KR, for Khmer Ramsay) to the Russian market to buy ingredients for green mango salad, fish amok, and a banana tapioca pudding. Like most of Phnom Penh, the Russian market is an assault on the senses. You can be watching an old man grate a fresh coconut, turn your body slightly to the left, and stare at a little girl butcher a barely dead hog.
On the tuk-tuk ride back, I asked KR how long she'd been teaching cooking. Just some small talk, right? She replied that this was her first year with the job, and continued to describe her passion for making food. Suddenly, she was serving up a tale about her life without a husband, and how she puts love into her food, and that she enjoys cooking for her friends, but she's scared to take the risk of making one friend a *boyfriend,* because of how some of her relationships have ended in the past, and so on. I see why reality cooking shows are such emotional journeys.
For the rest of the course, my focus was on KR's emotional disclosure more than the physical exertion of slicing mangoes and chopping lemongrass. Mashing curry paste from scratch might give me sore biceps, but disappointing KR because of my shitty knife work led to a different kind of toll. I needed to impress this woman.
At one point, as I was cursing myself and hastily scooping scraps of lime leaves out of my sauce, KR asked everyone to stop what they were doing. She reminded the kitchen, "I put love in my food." She again mentioned that she does not have a partner or kids. Then she began telling us about the death of her friend. This friend was her "last single friend." They were a team. She said, "When I feel sad, I cook. When I want to cry, I cook. I do not hold my feeling back, I put it in food. I cook because I love."
KR helped me realize that I can't remove food from it's symbolic value. Food will never be simply fuel. But I can reassign meaning away from morality, and make it about experiences. Apples and cheese are more than carbs and fats: the combo sends me back to snacking after school in the third grade. Peanut butter in a tortilla tastes like running to class late. Thai take-out is a date with my boyfriend. And now, green mangos are defined by connecting to a new culture. White rice is the staple of bonding with Harpswell girls. It's almost...as if...memories...count more than calories? Who knew.
So my friends and I may joke, "Don't come in the kitchen if you're not ready." Another take on that quote is to stay in the kitchen, and learn to make yourself stand the heat.
This post was FAR more sentimental than I planned. I'm following up with ingredients and pictures from the class. Back home, I'll be sticking to the physical exertion it takes to scoop hummus with a baby carrot.
My DOPE appetizer presentation.
