Eric was the cook in our house. He liked it. I didn’t. If it was up to me, we’d have Pop Tarts or a bag of peanut-butter-filled pretzels for dinner. Followed by donuts.
But Eric was having none of that. He was the healthiest eater I’ve ever seen. Just naturally so. The guy liked vegetables and wasn’t fond of sugar. He ate almost nothing from a package. He was a vegetarian for 35 years, well before he was diagnosed with cancer, and I often wondered if his diet is what helped him outlive his peers.
Anyway, every night for dinner he’d fire up the rice cooker, then cut different veggies: zucchini, broccoli, carrots, mushrooms, kale and/or bell peppers. He’d get out his 500lb cast-iron pan and sauté fresh garlic and ginger, add the veggies, then mix in tofu or beans for protein. He showered turmeric over it (he read turmeric was a cancer fighter), which would splatter yellow over the stovetop. His “Mr M: Teacher” apron protected his hoodie and ripped-ass jeans.
He’d put the rice and veggies together and serve us each a bowl that we’d eat on the couch in front of the TV. By then it was typically 9pm. Late, I know, but that’s how we rolled. I’d eat my bowl in five minutes, and Eric would still have three-quarters of his left.
His slowpoke eating was legendary. At my family’s house, we’d all be finished, have put our dishes in the sink, and be mowing our way through the ice cream cake, while Eric was still only half way through his main dish. He didn’t mind. He knew he was the proper one.
Back on the couch, I’d start eating from his bowl.
“You know when the apocalypse comes, and we’re all fighting over food, I will eat yours,” I’d say. “No mercy. So you might want to pick up the pace before the zombies arrive."
He didn’t even try to defend his bowl from me! He’d offer me as much as I wanted. Because he was the world’s nicest. Also: he didn’t think zombies would want his chemo’ed, radiated brain, so it was a weak incentive.
For six months after he died, I couldn’t touch the rice cooker. I couldn’t chop veggies or use the cast-iron pan at first either, but that rice cooker was my main bugaboo. Eric had it since before we met. He used it almost every day. It reminded me waaaay too much of what was gone.
Instead I had girl dinners. Actually, they were more like kindergartener dinners. Basically, candy. Not even on a plate. But eventually I started to miss it: The hiss of veggies in the pan. Nutrients. Eating with utensils.
So I took out the rice cooker. Plugged it in. And made a veggie dish. Yay me! I know it sounds ridiculous, but it was a pretty big deal. That rice cooker isn’t the boss of me anymore. It’s now my bitch.
Though just to annoy astral Eric, I continue to eat candy. At a fast pace. Because: zombies.
He was such a damn great stir-fryer. Legend.
I can't believe it's been over six months since he died! But good for you for making the rice cooker your bitch. Eric would be happy and proud that you have and that you're eating some veggies.