Chopping Cucumbers

I wanted to write something in light of Anthony Bourdain’s passing. However, writing about him or about what he’s meant to me felt like something he’d absolutely hate—even though I don’t actually know the guy. So, instead, I decided to write about my cooking, my storytelling, and my mental illness struggles. After all, he did kind of teach me a little something about those things.

Chopping cucumbers is probably one of my favorite things on the planet and I don’t even like cucumbers very much. Yet, the sound of a sharp knife through a cucumber is…idyllic. In my mind, precision even on the small scale, is something that alleviates tension. Cucumbers are tough on the outside and quite smooth on the inside, and no, that isn’t a metaphor it just is. They can be real slippery characters, but nonetheless they are my favorite to chop. But, like I said, I don’t like to eat them very much. I’ve learned though, that if I chop them small enough, and put them in a bowl with some gutted tomatoes and maybe some red onion they transform from the cucumbers I remember into something different.

I don’t really like any of those ingredients I just listed, but I put them all together when trying to make a salad for my family’s dinner one night because it seemed like those ingredients were friends. Greek salads (which I would never order but my mom and sister love) had all those things on them so clearly they went together.

Cooking, like I’ve seen many times in many countries thanks to Anthony Bourdain, is all about sorting what you have into what you can create.

But, a salad of cucumbers, gutted tomatoes (yes gutted—seeds are yuck to me), and red onion in a bowl isn’t all that great. They were all I could find in the fridge that seemed to work together that night though, and we had no lettuce.

Since I had seen these ingredients on a Greek salad before I thought about other things that went with Greek food. It was similar to Italian food, and Italian food meant basil and oregano. So, if I added basil and oregano to the cast of characters in the bowl they’d probably start to taste more like Italian food; a Mediterranean style dish. They looked sad, like they needed a liquid. Balsamic vinegar and oil is what’s on a table at an Italian restaurant so maybe some of those things go into the bowl too, and all of a sudden, I had created something that didn’t make me want to hurl; that’s cooking.

The story above occurred when I was probably 14 or 15, and to be honest I don’t chop cucumbers that often even though they are the most fun. But, I do put flavors together purely from stories I remember or stories I want to tell. That is why even in my darkest moments of my life, the depths of my depression or sweats of anxiety, the kitchen felt safe and something that wasn’t pointless.

Cooking is managed stress, and forward-thinking chaos. There is never a moment where you mind can slide down a rabbit-hole when you’re focused on making sure the garlic doesn’t burn. Additionally, cooking has an input and output like a really satisfying statistics equation.

I know that If I combine white vinegar, white onions, and sliced cucumbers with dill, I will make something that reminds my parents of “quick pickles” from their childhood.

Cooking is a storytelling in quick, scientific, but almost spiritual steps. It is something that can bring joy to others even when you yourself feel like you can’t. That is something that has always been important to me; bringing others joy. But, there are some days when the bubbles that usually make me so sweet and cheery pop, and I am disinterested in smiling or moving, but I know that if I take brown sugar and softened butter, I can cream them into the base of chocolate chip cookies that can take my place in bringing joy to others if only for a moment. 

That is why I cook. Not professionally, not even that often, but that is why I cook. I have to believe that I’m not alone in that, and I have to believe that it makes things better and easier; that belief is an ingredient too.