And the Beet Goes On
My (vegan) daughter was here recently for a visit. We took a few rare father-daughter days together, down by the Dead Sea. Even with the long periods of quiet and meditation that a desert landscape brings, we had plenty of time to talk. Among other things, she talked about beet carpaccio dish that her cousin/chef had recently prepared for her. That was all it took. The seed was planted. I had to make that dish as soon as we returned to our soul food kitchen. Which is what happened. Of course.
But here’s where things get a bit weird. I had to make that dish better than the one she had eaten in her cousin’s fancy upscale Tel Aviv bistro. It had to be gorgeous-looking. And infused with just the right touch of sweet (balsamic vinegar) and heat (fresh green chilis) that I knew would suit my daughter to a T. Better, Prettier. More soulful. What the fuck I thought to myself. I hadn’t even sampled that other dish. What was this competitive shit all about? What do I do about this competitive instinct, so counter to the zen zeitgeist I was striving for in my kitchen, in my life?
Part of the answer surely has to do with nature, being DNA wired that way, growing up with a crazy ass competitive ethos. Most of that wiring got channeled internally early on, a restless energy having to do with self-betterment, perpetually. Spice of life stuff, but it can be exhausting. Over recent years, I’ve tried to repackage those instincts into an exuberant embrace of lifelong learning, for its on sake. It works, sometimes. Mostly. For the most part.
But as I dig into the deep motives that stir me to make a beet carpaccio non pareil, I think part of the explanation has to do with this complex emotion that goes something like this: No one is going to take care of my daughter (and son) as well as I will. Insane, right? And I’ve always thought it was the maternal instinct brings out such ferocious protectiveness. Chalk it up, perhaps, to part of the detritus from a failed marriage: The desire to compensate for things I didn’t do well enough back in the day. Another bite at the apple. I dunno
What I do know is that when my daughter returned home from a long day of writing at a nearby coffee shop, she gave my beet carpaccio a delightful look, snapped a few beautiful pictures, posted one on Instagram, and then . . . never tasted the dish. Irit did. She loves beets. Said they were spicy as hell. Too much. And so it goes.
There’s a lesson to be learned here, somewhere. Eventually, I’ll figure out what it is. Or not.