chained to the stove

I have the second set of inlaws in town until Thursday. D’s family loves to visit LA and I love that about them. I’m happy to have them here. We’ve got a dedicated guest bedroom and a lot of towels. But the one thing is no one in his extended family knows how to make a piece of toast, let alone a full meal. On their own they subsist on stolen oyster crackers and old rolls of Tums at the bottom of purses and messenger bags. That they don’t all have scurvy or rickets is astonishing. Now keep in mind, my mother in law has a PhD in nutrition. But they rarely eat and they don’t cook. Three meals a day for six people for a total of 30 days (they’ve been coming in waves). I love to cook but my style is really Mediterranean and vaguely hipster. Lots of blistered tomatoes and farrow. Arugula and feta make frequent appearances in my home. My family have a New England pallet. Let’s put it this way, I made lasagna last night and that was an exotic departure from the usual meat and potatoes line up. Kale salad was like “stewed monkey brains” and I haven’t even attempted to take them for burritos. Also, the kids are all allergic to everything.

I’m griping about something that is minor but nevertheless my least favorite thing about family visits. My family is Southern so food is a full body contact sport. My family serves dessert with every meal with between meal desserts. Feast or famine. One thing I like about going to New England to stay with the inlaws is I can count on losing five to ten pounds depending on how long we’re staying. One year at Christmas I had my sister send me a nut basket as a gift while I was in Boston — not so much as a gift but more of a UNICEF airdrop for me. D was all like, “where did you get those nuts?” I said, “Don’t worry about it. It’s none of your business.” I wish I hated food as much as my inlaws. I’d love to be a rail thin New Englander with a really good education in everything except cuisine. Instead I am constantly doing battle with 10 to 15 pounds of unacceptable-for-a-gay fat. The expectation, and one I think is a minimum standard for myself, is that I should be swimsuit runway ready at all times. That’s normal and healthy, right?

Okay, enough procrastinating. I have to write my syllabus and send it in. It’s just that I actually have the house to myself and I’m enjoying not having to prepare another 1950’s meal for a little bit.