The Darker Side of Cooking, Part 1

Mothers Day

Like a good Jewish boy, I volunteer to make a mother's day brunch at my mom's house. My older brother Aaron will be there. My two kids, his daughter. My wife. It's a sunny day, light fills my mother's cozy little north Berkeley house. The kids play in the garden as I fry the potatoes. I've got a tart (or quiche?) of green garlic and asparagus cooling on top of the stove. A little fennel salad on the side. Some "kids macaroni" flourescent orange from the box. (Sorry Mikc C! I didn't know about Bechamel then!)
I'm proud that my dad's olive-oil-only crust recipe worked out well. I've made the flourless chocolate cake I learned from the first cooking class I took at Dara's house last May (TheSageTable.com). Very happy with the success of the cake. I've done all the cooking, again, but hey , I enjoy it so it's all good.
We're about to sit down. Aaron cuts up a few tomatoes and some hard mozzeralla. Part of me, the eternal-jealous-bitter-younger-brother, wants to say that for a tomato-mozz salad, probably the fresh mozz is a better choice, (duh!) personally I can't stand that hard mozzarella, but I don't say anything, it's just food for heavens sake. He drizzles some olive oil over it. Basil leaves. Looks good enough. We take all the platters to the table.
We all load our plates. Eat, talk. This is what it's about, I think to myself. The kids, adults, all together...My mom seems to enjoy the food I made. It's nice that after all th thousands of times she cooked and cleaned for us-
"Mmmm..oh...great salad" she says, giving Aaron a warm and satisfied smile. I wait. Silence.

...Huh?

More silence as we eat. I look at Rebecca to see if it's just me, but she smirks at me. She gets it. Great salad? Great fuckin' salad. I imagine myself pulling a Tony Soprano and ruining a family meal with a sudden fit of rage. "I'll show you a great fuckin salad, capiche#@!!?" I'll scream, pulling out the table cloth and sending everything crashing to the ground while they look on stunned and shocked.

But like a good Jewish boy, I sit silently and stew in rage and spite. And I write about it a month later.

Lessons learned? Don't need praise. Cook for yourself. Grow up.
Or maybe just be more Italian.