Nostalgia

I made the first thing that required more than boiling water in my itty-bitty kitchen on Monday. As butter melted on my two-eyed stove top, I realized I had forgotten the smell of electric coils on cast iron. Chocolate oatmeal cookies are the only real recipe I know by heart – the only one I know all the exact measurements to. I remember summers making them with Mom and my friends. (Mom is the kind of mom who has to have crafts or activities prepared for children who enter the house. I didn’t care so much for crafts as I grew older, so cooking was often our activity.)

Growing up, we cooked on our electric coils in our French country-meets-Southern cuisine/cookware kitchen. In high school when I took over chef duty out of boredom of “fettuccine alfredo casserole” and green beans from a can, I learned how to prepare slightly more adventurous meals. Since then, my parents’ kitchen and my cooking style have advanced – to gas utilities and improved techniques/ingredients, respectively.

But now that I’ve reverted to the electric stovetop and no oven, there is a sense of nostalgia as the coils heat up and I worry about uneven heat. Sure I’m making couscous from the Joy of Cooking and ravioli with a browned butter sauce a la Julia Child, but I feel like I’m getting back to some sort of roots. I’ve never thought of myself as a person who had roots. It’s kind of nice.