Why do I have to eat this?

Yesterday, I tried to live blog cooking with William on Daddy Daze’s Facebook fan page (you’re a fan, right?). It didn’t really work because Facebook is a pain in the ass. But that’s not important. What’s important is why I did it: It’s our responsibility, our duty to make the dishes we grew up with, to honor the women who prepared them and to teach our own children to do the same. By eating green bean casserole, polenta and spinach and chicken with mushroom sauce we show our respect for the hard-working women who fed a hungry family on a razor thin budget.

After undergraduate school, I lived in a basement apartment about the size and shape of a phone booth. At one end was a twin bed, and at the other end was a love seat. Next to the bed was a narrow, wooden crate. I kept my alarm clock on that shelf and my TV — an appliance I received as a pity loan — balanced on top. At the foot of the bed was a closet so shallow that the corners of the hangers bumped the back of the door.

Between the bed and the love seat was what I called the kitchen. A white enamel counter top followed the wall for about five feet before bending into an “L” and extending for another two feet. In the center was a sink about the size of a large dictionary. Next to that were two electric burners — a glorified hot plate.

Beneath the stove, just before the “L,” was a small refrigerator that may have been designed by Fischer-Price. Inside was a freezer about the size of a shoebox that sealed itself closed with ice every seven to ten days. Typically, people place things into a freezer for long-term storage. If I failed to eat my frozen goods quickly, I had to free them with a hammer.

I had no phone (I used a pay phone in town) and no car.

What I did have was food.

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Baby it’s cold inside

I try to keep myself organized. Not “Martha” organized, but somewhere between her ideal and the aftermath of a nuclear detonation. This past weekend I was going through old photos (remember when “going through old photos” involved shoe boxes and rubber bands, not computers and hard drives?), which is a risky task. I invariably get distracted by the nostalgia of it all, and the next thing I know, four hours have passed and I’ve accomplished nothing.

And, wouldn’t you know — I paused when I found the shot you see above.

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Where the mild things are