Life From Scratch Read Online Free PDF

never been supportive,” he said.
    I couldn’t think of a way I could have been more supportive of his work at the office unless I’d offered to deliver his subpoenas. So that left showing support of him at home, which conjured up images of wifely duties I should have been performing instead of watching television. Of meals unprepared and shirts un-ironed and all of the things my mother had drilled into my head not to do for a man.
    It’s not as if his own socialite mother ever slowed down from her busy schedule to toss a few steaks onto the grill for Adam’s family so I’m not sure where the domestic desires stemmed—certainly not from childhood.   But learning to cook became a way to recreate myself—something I had never done before.   I’d defy my mother’s brainwashing and Adam’s unspoken accusations about not being homey enough with one, single act.
    So New Jersey was where my cookware rested until several months following my divorce, when I went to collect it so I could scramble my own damn eggs.
    After we had coffee and bagels, my mother asked why I had brought two deflated suitcases with me. There was a fearful tone to her voice, as if she was bracing herself for me to request moving back into my childhood bedroom.
    “I’m just going to take back some of my old wedding gifts to New York . The stuff in the basement,” I said.
    On second thought, moving back into my bedroom seemed more sane. My mother had been holding her breath for several weeks as I talked about redefining myself with a new career. I think she secretly hoped that I would announce that it was law school for me after all.
    “Are you talking about the cookware?” my mother questioned. “Your father and I were talking about donating that stuff. Give it to a family who needs it.”
    “ I need it,” I told her.
    “I really don’t understand why you’re bothering with that.” She couldn’t even bring herself to call it cooking . She left dishes in the sink where my father would get to them later. It was one of the tradeoffs between his love of the earth as an environmental lawyer and her insistence on rejecting any tasks deemed “housework” as an escapee from the 1950s and overworked immigration lawyer. If they weren’t going to choke the landfills with paper plates and plastic forks, Dad was going to have to take care of the dishes. My mother did not touch dish soap.
    “I’m bothering with it because I can’t afford to eat out every night anymore,” I explained as I started following her towards her office.
    I wanted to add something snide like, “I’m not a big fancy lawyer like you,” except I knew that would only take us into a discussion on how I could be a big fancy lawyer like her if I only applied myself. In her world, 35-years-old was not too old to return to the classroom and get a new degree.
    I went into the basement by myself and filled my bags with salad spinners and frying pans and tiny saucier pots. I left behind the tagine, knowing that certain cookware was out of my element. At last minute, I threw a tube pan into the mix—an angel food cake pan that came with a recipe card called The Anniversary Cake, to be eaten on the first anniversary. I crumpled up the card and tucked the bakeware into my bag.
    The Cuisinart and the standing mixer were too bulky and heavy to fit in the bags. But I wanted them. I stomped back upstairs, dragging one of my suitcases behind me. I found my father in the kitchen at the sink, scrubbing a dish before he turned the water back on.
    “Any chance you could drive me back into the city?” I wheezed. I motioned to the suitcase. “I have a lot of stuff I want to bring back.”
    “Oh, cupcake, I’m working on a brief right now.”
    “It’s Saturday,” I pointed out. “You’re washing dishes.”
    “After this, I mean. I’m working on a brief this afternoon and then your mother and I are going out with the Perlmans.”
    Just as I didn’t know how to say it to Adam, I