Nice Monster

So often the scariest part of starting a big project is not knowing where to begin. You start with hesitation, which turns into frustration, boils into doubt, hardens into crack-resistant fear, and before you know it you feel like a failure when the first step hasn’t even been taken. In a big kitchen I am a king; in this tiny space, I am lost.

I am fortunate enough to have Ben’s help, who is actually no help at all. If I ask him what he wants for dinner I can expect a look of pure fear on his face, as if I asked him to perform some simple open heart surgery on me. The Clark family has created the pickiest son to never have preferences. Sometimes I wonder if Ben is right in his frightened expression; maybe I have taken on too much with this project.

We had lunch last week at Ron’s Island Grill in Eugene because I was too overwhelmed (yet again) to cook. Between bites of salty teriyaki I moaned to Ben about how helpless I felt in his kitchen. I begged for help. With each complaint Ben looked a little more uncomfortable. Finally he said, “I know absolutely nothing about the kitchen. Really, I only go in there to get water or pull some fruit from the fridge. It’s scary in there to someone who knows nothing; the toaster oven might as well have big sharp teeth.”

I made him repeat that last line to me about half a dozen times. It was so refreshing to hear my fear repeated back to me, and this was coming from the man who had lived with this kitchen for four years. I have been cooking since I was nine years old, and yet a hot plate and toaster oven are getting the best of me. I saw myself reflected in Ben, and I looked silly as all hell.

The next day I went to Michael’s craft store on a mission: to paint monster teeth on the toaster oven. Ben’s comment about an oven with teeth had been so endearing that I had to create it. It would be a constant reminder, to both me and Ben, of how silly our fear of the kitchen was. Believe me, it was great to see the look on the sales associate’s face when I asked for paint that could withstand high temperatures.

Operation: Nice Monster has teeth but is still in the works, mostly because I have to leave the oven sideways and turned on to dry the paint. In honor of my college English professor’s band, Nice Monster, I named the oven Lenny (the band’s mascot). I will add shading, blood, and possibly a tongue at some point when I figure out a good way to lay thick, even coats of the paint on (it likes to gloss and clump at the same time). I may also fashion eyes for Lenny at some point a la the recent Geico commercials. Photos of Lenny’s growth will be added to this post from time to time.

The best way to conquer fear, apparently, is to paint on it.

Girl meets Hot Plate

My passion for good food is life long. Some of my earliest photos are in the kitchen with my mother. She has always been an excellent cook, and still dreams of giving up law to run her own bakery or catering business. I learned most of what I know of cooking from watching her bring Seville and Tuscany to our table. Even if we had no money I could always count on something delicious to eat. Frugality, she said, was no excuse to abandon good taste.

The rest I learned from my father, who owned a small organic farm north of Napa Valley’s gourmet splendor. He taught me large and involved recipes from scratch, always eager to instruct. Because of them I developed a love of cooking for others, and extravagantly so. A door was always open and a plate was always set for anyone hungry or lonely. Love in my family is expressed in the kitchen.

I fell in love seven years ago in the usual way: in a grocery store. I was eighteen, new to Oregon. Ben was a lifelong Oregonian on the way to a geek party. I introduced myself and he all but hid under the grocery cart. We became friends anyway, and tried a relationship only after I had moved back to California. Like the car accident that forced my return, our long distance relationship crashed and burned.

We reconnected in late 2008, and by June of 2009 I was preparing to move to Oregon. Both Ben and I had unrealistic expectations about the move: I would find a job in days, we would move out of Ben’s studio apartment after my first paycheck, and I would recreate Napa in my gourmet kitchen night after night.

Life, however, is rough around the edges. I was laid off from a job after a month, and I had a harder time making friends than I ever had before. We had no chance of moving this summer, even if I found a new job immediately. We were stuck for an indefinite time in a studio apartment with one window and no air conditioning. Ben’s bachelor “kitchen “was equipped with just a hot plate and a toaster oven. California, despite all of its economic problems, seemed like paradise lost.

With no job, no friends, and no creative outlet, I began to lose hope. My mother could hear my voice grow bleaker and bleaker with every phone call. One day I told her about how much I hated the kitchen, and how no good food could ever come of it. Suddenly, the tone of her voice changed. “I think it can,” she said. “I think if anyone can figure out how to make gourmet meals with a hot plate, you can. I heard that Ina Garten (the host of Barefoot Contessa on Food Network) had only a hot plate on her honeymoon in Europe, and it made her into the cook she is today. This is an opportunity to be resourceful. Make this a fun challenge, not a destructive one.”

So I did. I took stock of my “kitchen”, said a quick prayer, and The Hot Plate Gourmet was born.

Thanks, Mom.