Ruth
(Continue from last week)
People sometimes ask if I’m offended that my better half won’t try my famous dish. The answer is no. There are plenty of battles I’m willing to die on. A plate of pig feet is not one of them. I know what my dish means to me. He knows what my dish means to me. That’s enough.
Of course, I do try to tempt him. Sometimes I rebrand. “It’s heritage pork confit,” as if I’m marketing a skin-care serum. Or I’ll mention that some chef in a fancy city charges twenty-seven dollars for one. He nods and reaches for the fish fillet. I respect that. Nobody should ever evangelize with pig feet. The gospel is enough.
But the potlucks at church keep teaching me things. Food is the quickest way to build a bridge. I’ve seen shy newcomers become instant family over a bowl of beans that tasted like their grandmother’s kitchen. I’ve watched a teenager, who looked allergic to conversation, open up the moment he crunched into a cookie he declared “just like Mom’s, but don’t tell her.” Food lowers defenses. It lets people believe they belong.
If you’re navigating culinary differences at home, here are a few small strategies that have kept peace in our kitchen:
- Have a neutral zone. In our house, rice is Switzerland.
- Practice respectful renaming. Brussels sprouts, roasted until caramelized, become “crispy green chips.” Accurate? Debatable. Effective? Often.
- Trade favorites without score-keeping. Pastor Ken sits through my cooking shows. I sit through his weekly sermon. Everyone wins. No one gets scurvy.
- Let the wider community fill the gaps. If your spouse won’t eat your specialty, bring it to people who will cheer. Potlucks are democratic that way.
And remember, the food you love isn’t strange. It’s a souvenir from where you started. Maybe you learned to love pig feet when meat was scarce and time was abundant. Maybe your comfort food is a boxed macaroni with the cheese powder that glows like a sunset. Maybe it’s a stew that smells like your childhood home. All of it is a story.
So I’ll keep simmering my pot until the sauce shines and the meat surrenders, and Pastor Ken will keep setting out chairs and smiling like a man who knows he married a woman with a strong seasoning hand. One day he may take a bite the size of a mustard seed. Or he may not. Either way, we’re fed. And the chorus of “Who made this?” lilted with happy accusation.
Now we’re retired. I still cook pig feet for my fellowship group, but never serve it at home. If you come to visit us and you request to try my famous dish, I’ll load your plate and send you home with leftovers, because that’s how I was raised.
