The “Classic Cait” Meal

It is Sunday evening, just after dusk, and I can’t stop picturing what it would be like to have a baby. We’ve already decided not to have children. Has turning thirty shifted my perspective? My mind’s eye is conjuring up a perfect, freckled little boy playing chess with his father, when I look up and notice the time. We are sitting in darkness, except for the pale glow of our phone screens. I think we were both trying to drag out the day together, squeeze every drop of sun for all it’s worth. The clicking cracks of my ankles are somehow amplified in the shadows, and he removes his resting head from my lap. I flick on the glossy, honey-colored lights, and the small cabin where we reside comes to life.

 I heave open the tall wooden cupboard, doing recon for the evening meal. Groceries are scant, with only odds and ends of the less desirable produce and snacks remaining. Standing on tiptoe, I peer up at one of the high, sparse shelves, and am relieved to find two dusty sweet potatoes pushed all the way to the back. As always, there is a hefty bag of Japanese rice down below, and I think we might even have broccoli florets in the freezer. If we had a child, they would probably love roasted broccoli with melty cheddar on top as much as their dad, I think.

I look over to my love, who sits with sleepy eyes on the sofa, his breath deepening. TJ’s sturdy form is disguised beneath a plush gray blanket, his left hand sticking out and downwards, stroking the black dog lying faithfully by his side. My chest warms at the sweetness of my little family. They are adorably exhausted.

“Classic Cait meal tonight?” I ask.

TJ’s face lights up, and he gives me this specific, wonderful, too-happy smile, like I’m giving him the one thing he has been secretly hoping for. My smile. If we had a baby, would it be their smile? “Yay!” he cheers. It gives me immense satisfaction to take care of him in this way. Plus, he genuinely loves my cooking. A “Cait meal” is our shorthand for the kind of nourishing dinner I routinely make on Sunday nights.

I become the master chef of our kitchen, cleaning surfaces, getting my station ready. I pre-heat and prep and chop and dice. Here, my mind is grounded right where my body is. I wonder if my grandmother’s grandmother’s grandmother felt this way about cooking, too.

The bag of rice is transformed in my hands. I cradle it in the crook of my arm, rocking gently as I lean it back, pouring the stream of pearly grains naturally into the silver pot. The tiny clinks of grain against metal are quietly musical like a lullaby. I fill the pot with water, using bare hands to swirl and clean the rice until the liquid becomes thick with starch, then pour the milky mixture down the drain. I repeat this process methodically, ten times over. I fill the vessel a final time, measuring to one-knuckle’s-worth of space between the top of the rice and the water’s surface. If we had a kid, we would definitely need a bigger rice cooker.

Once the rice is steaming, I move to my cutting board. The sweet potato is scrubbed bare, peeled, and cubed. The skin leaves a pleasant earthy smell on my palms and a slight orange tinge. I deposit the vivid chunks into the mixing bowl, drizzle oil over the top, and sprinkle in a blend of spices. I bounce the bowl in rhythmic circles, gently coating every last piece. I pour them carefully onto one half of the parchment and repeat the process with the broccoli. The unctuous vegetables sit under the range hood spotlight, the brilliancy of their respective colors reaching a crescendo. I can’t help but pause to admire them. If we had a child, what would their favorite color be?  I tuck the crowded pan into the warmth of the oven and set a timer.

Clicking the lid open, steam bellows out into the cool air. The humble, white sheen of the rice makes me suddenly emotional, like I could break down and cry right there. The little pot is pure and new, untouched. Perfect. It’s then that things become clear: I already nurture. I am a caretaker. To this meal, to our sweet pup, to my love. I pull the sheet of roasted veggies out of the oven, their sides toasted and brown. TJ sneaks up behind me, holding my waist with one hand, reaching the other over to the pan, and he steals a crispy piece of broccoli. “Mmmmm” he sighs approvingly.

The only problem with having a baby, I think, is that everything would change.