Don't Worry.

 Bitter Green Things

In a tiny restaurant on the Upper West Side, around six years ago, your father and I agreed we would start a life together, and then proceeded to make a series of decisions that ultimately culminated in you. It was a tapas bar. I remember that it was winter and that my coat was not warm enough and that when we opened the door to this tiny place warm fragrant air spilled onto the pavement. The windows glowed with candle light. I remember the round golden discs of potato in the patatas bravas, and the goat cheese croquettes drizzled with honey and the carafe of sangria with a slice of blood orange in it. I remember these details more than the specific conversation that your father and I had. I do know that by the end of this meal, I had made the decision to move continents.

You should know that I am heavy handed when it comes to ordering and cooking. I like my tables groaning with food. Nothing distresses me more than hungry people and too few appetizers. In those first few days at the hospital, while you grizzled away from hunger (you were a big baby with a big appetite) I worried endlessly and pumped out a few milliliters of colostrum that you consumed in a matter of minutes. Even now I express more milk than you will need. I buy things in bulk. I turn apples into apple jam and I pickle limes. I have tubs filled with grains (freekeh, farro, barley, red lentils, puy lentils, black eyed peas) – provisions that I can turn to should I, god forbid, run out of perishable food.

You may as well know that I will not allow you to order off the children’s section of a menu. No plain spaghetti with butter for you (although, admittedly, there is a certain pleasure in this combination, especially if you add some vegemite to the mix). Once, in an Malaysian restaurant in Sydney, I watched a little girl eat a laksa. She slurped at the noodles and ate the tofu and did not baulk at the spring onion and beans sprout. She was a mess, but I could have picked her up and kissed her. I hope you are that kind of child. You are in a city that allows you variety and freedom. In this city, I discovered Ethiopian berbere and lemon tagliatele and miche bread. You should unabashedly revel in this choice. I hope, also, that you will learn to cook. To eat is a necessity, wrote M.F.K.Fisher in her beautifully titled essay anthology How to Cook a Wolf,  but to eat intelligently is an art. Part of eating intelligently involves choosing ingredients and knowing their qualities. A grilled eggplant is qualitatively different to a charred one. I hope you take pleasure in knowledge like this.       

The only time that I couldn’t cook or eat was during the first few months of pregnancy. Nausea made me convulse over sidewalks and into plastic bags. I stood on the subway trying not to breathe in the stench of humanity. Food suddenly became a fraught affair – I ate potatoes, rice and the occasional piece of fruit. I developed a hatred for squash and onions and cauliflower. In Hell’s Kitchen, the smell of frying grease lingered in the air and I carefully navigated this terrain, breathing shallowly until I reached a place of safety. I felt as though I had lost a part of myself when I lost my appetite.    

But now we have moved, and while you still cannot breathe in in Brooklyn without smelling something, the air does feel a little more rarefied. I am not pregnant and very relieved about that. There are grocery stores everywhere – one right near the apartment, and one a few streets away. I prefer this latter place. The staff do not blink when I ask for passata or tamarind and point me to the relevant aisle. I can find all the ingredients for a soup that I like to make, comprised entirely of herbs and beans. My mother was taught how to make this by our Persian neighbor. For about a decade, until we moved, your grandmother and this lady would cross the driveways separating the two house bearing vats of soup and slices of cake in the manner of two people whose most significant source of communication was the exchange of food. This recipe is one of the last vestiges of that wonderful fruitful relationship.   

One day, when you have teeth and can eat solid food, I will place a steaming bowl of this swamplike broth in front of you. You may be mystified by its garlicky depths. You may be suspicious of its aroma. You may wonder whether I am testing you. 

I hope you eat the bitter green things in this bowl. 

I hope you like them.