Cooking for Keith (Six Random Things About Myself: Part Six)

I’ve been cooking a lot lately; you might have noticed. But there’s something I haven’t really discussed yet when I talk about cooking — not because it’s secret or controversial or incriminating, but because it really deserves its own discussion. And I know there’s a lot of other people out there, somewhere, who can relate. *fist bump*

My husband, Keith, is severely allergic to dairy and eggs. I won’t lie — it can be downright aggravating when we’re hungry, and say, at the mall or on the road, and we can’t find a “safe” place for Keith to get a meal (here in the land of pre-processed foods, apparently there’s a need to put dairy or egg derivatives in almost everything — McDonald’s french fries, for instance). I get frustrated and grumpy when I can’t have the meal I crave because Keith can’t eat anything from the same menu — but then I think about how it’s got to feel for him. I, who have no food allergies, could technically grab a meal wherever I wanted; meanwhile, Keith has to choose between going hungry or going to the emergency room. It’s not a tough decision.

The choice was easy for me too. If Keith can’t eat, I don’t eat either. He didn’t ask me to. He doesn’t make me feel guilty on the occasion when I go ahead and eat what I want (sometimes the power of craving is just too much). In fact, he encourages me to eat the food I want, even when he can’t order from the same place. He knows he’ll find food eventually. He knows he can make do. But I do it because I like to share meals with my husband. I do it because it shouldn’t be so hard. And I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me because I don’t get to add parmeggiano reggiano to the pasta primavera, or go out for Chinese food, or order pizza from the place that makes my favorite crust. Sure, sometimes it bums me out. But then again, I’m really not the one suffering here.

So it really goes without saying that we can’t buy a lot of pre-made foods. I know it’s healthier that way, so while I’m grateful for the motivation to cook, some nights I would give anything to just fry up some meat and throw in a box of Hamburger Helper. Don’t judge. I know Keith would too. Anyway, we make almost everything from scratch. I always liked the satisfaction of cooking from scratch anyway, so this is good: it indulges my sense of accomplishment.

Therefore, it’s thanks to Keith and his severe food allergies that I learned to cook. It’s because of Keith that I know how to bake so well. It’s because of him that I’ve learned to be more creative in the kitchen.

You see, when I decided to eat only when Keith could eat, I also decided I was unwilling to give up things like cake and brownies and bread and pie. So I learned to make substitutions, and have succeeded in fattening up my husband on delicious baked goods, the likes of which he had never even dreamed of tasting. And me being the perfectionist that I am, I refuse to settle for mediocre-tasting foods. I experiment and hone until it’s right, so that Keith can share in many of the same gastronomic joys that us non-allergic people take for granted.

Take pumpkin pie for instance. It’s a custard. Which means eggs. Lots of eggs. Eggs, which define the texture of the custard. Eggs which will put Keith in the hospital. It’s a formidable baking challenge. I love a formidable baking challenge. This was the culinary challenge I tackled this weekend.

It came out quite good, in my opinion. After years of experimenting with this stuff, I think it’s the best (and simplest) Keith-friendly pumpkin pie I’ve made, although I’ll admit the texture is a little too much like a stiff pudding, or a runny flan. I don’t know exactly how to fix it, but rest assured — I’ve got an idea or two. One day, I’ll get it right. It’s what I do.

Six Random Things About Myself: Part five

I love a good rubric. I mean, I *adore* rubrics. Give me a rubric and I melt like mozzarella. Like a hearty Scottish brogue, it makes my heart skip a beat and gives me goosebumps. Rowr.

What can I say? There’s just something about them that makes me feel so … objective. It satisfies so many of my deepest womanly needs. Things like the need for consistency and control. Logic. Organization. Clear expectations. A rubric will tell you exactly what it wants, but still leaves a little room for your own interpretation. And that, my friend, is even sexier than a checklist. I just can’t get enough.

When I volunteered to help judge the St. Patrick’s Day limerick contest at work, did I just read through the 30-odd poems and vote for the ones I liked best? No. I developed a rubric. And passed it out to the other two judges. And you know what? The winner was unanimous, receiving almost equal scores across the board. It was beautiful.

I even once bought a book of baby names — out of all the other compendiums of names that exist — because it offered a step-by-step method for choosing your favorite names, and a rubric to share with your friends and family to objectively score your list of names. There’s security in knowing that my husband and I won’t have to wrestle with one of the most crucial decisions of our lives all alone, rubricless. My life is better. Much, much better.

So imagine my elation when I discovered a rubric for analyzing the candidates’ performance during the Presidential Debate. Did I actually use it? No. But it sure made me feel good, just sitting there in front of me, begging to be used. (Find out what the experts said!)

The thing is, while watching the debate (and lots of other speeches), I heard a lot of talk about achieving ”success” and “victory” in Iraq. But what I haven’t heard anyone address is that the two candidates seem to have a very different idea of what constitutes “success” or “victory.” This is the thing that keeps driving me nuts: What, exactly, defines victory? What are the indicators of success?

…Do you see where I’m headed here?!

SHOW! ME! THE RUBRIC!

Six Random Things About Myself: Part Four

August 13 is International Left-Handers Day. I’ll bet you didn’t know that. And, look! Today is August 13! Which makes me think this is the perfect opportunity for Random Thing Number Four:

I am left-handed. And PROUD.

Even though we lefties are in great company, life’s not easy. No, all of our talent, brilliance and beauty comes at a difficult price. In my lifetime, I’ve been told time and again that I do certain things backwards. Most people that say this don’t mean any harm, but it still bugs me: I’m not backwards. I’m a slow writer, just to make my writing legible and to keep my hand from getting inky, and because the way I form my letters mirrors the way a right-handed person writes hers. My mother was verbally attacked at the bank once, when I was thirteen months old, because she let me grab a rattle with my left hand, and dear god in heaven that would be disastrous.

Still, we lefties are a proud group: we congratulate ourselves on being left-handed, we share an instant bond with all other lefties we encounter, whether we know each other or not. You’re left-handed?! I’m left-handed too! Rock on! We’re a special bunch.

But as with every other group of people who have been oppressed, misunderstood, mistreated and linguistically abused, living life as a lefty has given me the fortitude to overcome great odds and excel in ways that not just any old righty can understand. It’s given me the strength to stand up and say let’s make the world a friendlier place for lefties.

And so, my friends — left, right, and everything in between — raise up your voices and punch your (left) fist in the air, for we have the power to overcome right supremacy. There’s a day in the future when our children will write at desks suited for all hands, in notebooks with the spiral on top, when we understand each other’s differences and appreciate that these are the very things that make the human race so darn interesting. But let’s not dream of it: let’s make it real.

It’s the left thing to do.