"There is nothing more vulnerable than caring for someone"
My finger glides around the perimeter of my son's steel jar, dragging the leftover hazelnut butter lining its walls. I suck on my sticky finger and imagine his fingers gripping and dipping the apple slices into the butter. The remnants of his lunches and snacks captivate me as reminders of what was. Does he eat fast or slow? Does he talk about the food with his friends? How does his food compare to those around him? Does it remind him of me? The leftovers are a residue of his actions, actions that are part of what he lives outside of our relation. Traces are how I fill in the gaps of his days through my own phenomenological perception.
I welcome this process. I don't wish to be there with him every moment. I'm eager for him to grow on his own time.
“There is nothing more vulnerable than caring for someone; it means not only giving your energy to that which is not you but also caring for that which is beyond or outside your control. [ ... ] To care is not about letting an object go but holding on to an object by letting oneself go, giving oneself over to something that is not one’s own.”
—Sara Ahmed, The Promise of Happiness (2010)
Every time I clean out his containers I am transported to the habits of his meal times: unscrewing the thermos lid, unfolding the spoon and opening up the inside cap perhaps being pleasantly surprised at its contents despite seeing what's put in there in the morning (kids have such clever selective memory!), trying to scoop out the last bits of basmati rice alongside the ridges, or not feeling the slow cooked borscht on that day.
I move through his movements in my mind. I enter into them as if it's my first time; the feelings are always fresh. Is this what it's like to be in love? To be constantly opened and to live on surprise? I linger on S—'s touch, feeling his feeling of cutlery or the crumbly triple decker sandwich that must be compressed to fit into his mouth.
Food is the core of our family; even S—'s snacks are never an afterthought. We don't reserve elaborate meals for weekends or special occasions, although if we had a time manager I am sure they would suggest it. Whatever. “One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well,” Virginia Woolf reminds us.
Since S— has always been a grateful and voracious eater we indulge him. Family meal times, even breakfast, are drawn-out forms of love and connection. S— knows meals don't just appear, they have a history, take time and effort, and are often a collective act. If he wants hamantaschen, he must also help shape the triangles and tuck in the filling.
"But what if I break the dough?" S— asks me. He always wants to do the right thing, even though failure is encouraged in our home. An inconceivable concept in my grandma's kitchen in which I was not welcome.
"Then we knead and roll it back out again. The kitchen is a lab of experimentation and exploration. We're always practicing, aren't we?" I assuage him.
There was no space for do-over's in his parents's childhoods. J ate alone on tables fit for dinner parties to which he was never invited, and I had to balance a dinner plate and soup bowl on my knees while sitting on the toilet because I acted up in one way or another. Between us both, we lived meal time as abandonment and exile. Now, revering our epicure son, we practice meal time as desire.
S—'s dairy free low gluten rhubarb hamantaschen adapted from the Smitten Kitchen cookbook.* S— first made this with me shortly after his 4th birthday and many times thereafter, Purim or not. I promise it's a lot of fun. We always do the rhubarb filling a day or two in advance or else there's too many steps for one day. Rhubarb is one of the only things I freeze from the summer because it's impossible to get during any other season in Montreal.
*I have adapted so much of the book's recipes for our dietary restrictions that I have often thought about starting a fan account. ** For astute dispatches of a vegan chef/baker who is now a mom-to-be, subscribe to Kate Ray's soft leaves.
This recipe makes about 28 hamantaschen.
INGREDIENTS
Filling:
500g rhubarb (about 3.5 cups of when cut into chunks)
1 tsp lemon juice
100g coconut sugar
Cookie:
50g almond meal/flour
225g kamut flour
25g coconut flour
50g coconut sugar
2 tsp ground flax seeds
1/2 teaspoon sea salt
8 tablespoons (vegan) butter cut into small pieces
1 large egg
1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract
Filling:
Trim edges and cut rhubarb in ½-inch segments for about 3.5 cups.
Place them in a pot with sugar and lemon, stir to combine, turn heat to medium low, cover and cook for 15 minutes. Increase the heat to medium, remove cover and cook, stirring so nothing sticks for another 25 minutes. Rhubarb should break down and be thick enough so it doesn't drip. This has to be solid enough to be a filling. (The original recipe has much more sugar, but we don't miss it.)
Pour it out to a bowl or glass container to cool (and put in fridge if not doing cookies that day).
Cookie:
Add almond meal, flours, sugar, flax, and salt together to a food processor.
Add chunks of butter as straight from the fridge as possible to keep it cold, and pulse until the mix resembles pebbles.
Add the egg and extract and pulse until the dough starts to come together and smooth out around the chopping blade.
Take the dough out and knead about 3 times until it's a ball. Divide into quarters.
Shape & Cook It:
Place one-quarter of the dough on a well-floured counter and flour the top of it as well. I use rice flour for this as it's cheap and doesn't impart any flavour.
Roll the dough to an 1/8 inch thickness and cut out circles with a 2½-to-3 inch round cutter or drinking glass. Whatever is left over, knead again and roll out.
Using a measuring spoon, dollop 1 teaspoon of the rhubarb, filling the center of each circle. Fold up the edges in three places to form a triangular cookie and pinch the seams together to form corners.
Transfer the cookies to a parchment-lined baking sheet and place entire tray in the freezer for 30+ minutes before baking. Repeat with remaining dough.
Preheat your oven to 375 degrees and bake them for about 15 to 18 minutes until golden (depending on the strength of your oven). With a spatula gently place them on cooling racks and eat! These store well and firm up moist in a container for up to 4 days in the fridge.