If ever I get too confident that I’m actually learning how to cook an feel comfortable in the kitchen, a day like today comes along to remind me I will likely always be an epic failure.
I bought a Spiral Slicer; a funky device that slices zucchinis into long, thin strands that look just like noodles. Since we’ve finally moved to Stage 4 of GAPS and can now have cold-pressed oils, I thought I’d make a recipe for pesto sauce that I found from the Home Health Happiness blog and something akin to pasta for the first time in God knows how long (because before the past 42 days on GAPS, we were following the Body Ecology diet, which also outlaws carbs). Zucchini Noodle Pesto – I was beside myself.
Normally, I’d never try a learn new, fancy dish like this during the week, and certainly never in the evening when we’re all just getting home. With Sadie tugging on my arm to play dolls with her, Logan incessantly asking me to play video games with him, the dog jumping up and down for me to walk her, and my husband eagerly chattering about something (today it was election results), it’s impossible for me to focus. I’d describe it like trying to learn Greek while walking on a tightrope over a shark tank.
But I’d taken today off work to catch up on writing (I decided to do NaNoWriMo this year and of course am already 6,000 words behind), clean, and grocery shop, so I had the sort of calm, capable feeling that comes after a day of accomplishments (I’d written almost 7,000 words, bought groceries and did the dishes!). I knew I could do this.
I picked up the spiral slicer and fumbled with it in my hands. “How does this thing work?” I asked Jason.
“Well, you use this piece to stab the end of the zucchini, and then you twist it through this piece.”
It felt foreign and awkward in my hand, even more so when I stabbed the zucchini and tried to twist it. Thin, dark green slices fell into my glass bowl.
“Oh,” I said, stopping. “Am I supposed to peel these first?”
I decided I should. That made the slices look like noodles, but I still couldn’t get them to slice into long strands. The tool just felt wrong, completely unlike a pen, which feels comforting in my hands — in fact, I even hold one while delivering a class lecture just to feel at ease. Maybe I should try holding one while I cook, too.
I sliced through most of my two pounds of zucchini, then decided I’d probably done enough. Jason was, thankfully, manning the food processor—another kitchen tool that never failed to baffle me- for the pesto sauce.
“Do we just drop all the basil in, or do we have to trim the ends first?”
“Is that all the garlic we have? I don’t think that’ll be enough.”
“The recipe calls for what? ‘A quart of oil olive, or as much as will fit’? What the hell is that?”
In the end, we did trim the basil stems, we had no choice but to only use six cloves of garlic (the recipe called for 2-10, which seems like an incredibly big range), and we only added maybe a cup of olive oil. All the ingredients swirled around with the high-pitched whine of the food processors, transforming into a bright green paste.
I dipped my finger in. It tasted lovely, like satin and velevet.
My zucchini noodles, on the other hand, were not faring so well. We didn’t really have a recipe for how to make them, but Jason guessed that, based on another recipe in Against All Grain, they’d need maybe five to eight minutes in boiling water. I did that, but when I drained them through the wire colander, they instantly turned to mush.
“Noodles” Note how they were supposed to look in the picture behind.
I plopped the gob of zucchini into a glass bowl and sighed. It looked like pale green pudding – far, far from anything resembling noodles.
But—maybe because I’d spent all day writing, maybe because Logan’s had two rock star days in a row, maybe because Sadie was at the moment happily distracted—I was not deterred. I simply mixed in a few spoonfuls of pesto sauce and retrieved the now-cooked chicken from the stock Jason had been making. I spread the sauce over it and declared the meal a victory anyway.
The kids even ate it, though Logan had to be coaxed to do so. In fact, he had to be coaxed to eat everything, including his chicken, cabbage and carrots. Despite my satisfied attitude while cooking, I soon fell apart.
“Logan! EAT!” I cried as the night wore on and Logan babbled baby talk, pushed his fork through the air and pressed it to his face, then traced the faint circles around and around on his plate.. “Please take one bite!”
“No, Sadie, do not get up from this table again. If you do, you’re going in your bed. It’s not play time.”
Logan stimmed all through the meal, taking bites only after three or four prompts from me. He screamed when I set the timer, telling him he had to clean his plate before it went off or he wouldn’t get a treat before bed. This tactic had worked a few months ago for awhile, but lately, it’s seemed to be more stressful on him than motivating. But on nights like these, it seems to be the only thing that works to get him to eat.
Instead of eating, Logan is spending most of supper tracing the circles on his plate.
It worked tonight, too, but his distracted/defiant/restless mood continued. He simply could not sit still while I read books to the kids, and a stream of baby talk and extreme silliness seemed to just bubble out of him. He reminded me of a pot of boiling water with the cover rattling on top, barely able to contain the steam struggling to escape.
“Logan, if you can’t have a quiet body, we’ll be done with books and go to bed,” I warned him. I warned him several times, in fact—then finally, I had to follow through with it. “That’s it!” I cried. “You’re not having a quiet body. Get in your bed. Now!”
“I WILL have a quiet body!” he cried. “I WILL!”
“Logan, you’ve said that for the past six times. You will have a quiet body tomorrow. But right now, there have to be consequences!”
He screamed and cried and kicked, his body thrashing all over his mattress. I felt awful, but I felt like I was exploding, too. Why can’t he contain his energy? No matter if he’s angry or excited, he’s always like that boiling water pot, bursting with hot emotions.
“What is going on with him?” I asked Jason when the kids finally fell asleep an hour later.
“Did you see his ears?” he replied. “Fire red.”