Alone in the Kitchen With an Eggplant: Confessions of Cooking for One and Dining Alone
ed. Jenni Ferrari-Adler
New York: Riverhead Books, 2007
To review this book on an eggplant blog is slightly misleading: beyond its name and cover, the book is not actually about eggplant, but is rather a collection of essays and memoirs on the topic of cooking and dining alone. But this subject, however devoid of actual eggplants, resounds with me and likely other food-blog-readers for whom cooking and experimentation is not only a hobby but a lifestyle. Here in Hyde Park, Chicago – where good restaurants are so scarce that mediocre Thai vs. mediocre Indian is a major topic of campus debate – it’s difficult to get by without cooking for oneself. And for most students overloaded with reading and papers, eating with others becomes an occasional social treat, while the majority of meals are taken at one’s desk with a computer front and center and a bowl of soup on the sidelines. I am one of those fortunate students who lives in a 1-bedroom rather than a cramped studio, in which I have my very own dining table; but that’s for guests. Alone, I find myself eating at the coffee table, sitting cross-legged on the floor, a book propped open by the plate. Occasionally I will sit at the dining table, but only to hunch over a jar of cornichons, stabbing at them with my fork as if I were hunting little Amazonian fishes.
The only reason I admit these weird habits is that, thanks to this book, I know I am not alone (so to speak). As the editor articulates in her introduction, such confessions offer an oddly intimate peek into other people’s lives, like glimpsing a neighbor through the window padding around in underwear. What and how we eat when we’re alone – whether treating ourselves to a garnished feast or eating refried beans from the can – is strangely personal, and thereby fascinating.
While I appreciate the book’s central theme, I enjoyed some of the essays more than others. Many of the memoirs contained sincere confessions, such as the professional chef who eats Chef Boyardee and saltines while standing at the kitchen counter, or the man who made himself sick with his own awful cooking. I also enjoyed the essays on the joys and insecurities of restaurant dining alone, an activity that I have never been brave enough to attempt. But I couldn’t help feeling that some authors presented an idealized version of themselves cooking alone, savoring gourmet delicacies in private, working wonders in a tiny kitchen, or meandering through artsy New York eateries. I couldn’t help but notice how many of the articles -- 11 out of 26 – took place either in New York city, or a miniscule studio apartment, or both (not least the essay entitled, “How to Cook in a New York Apartment”). And looking through the essays as a whole, I realized that confessing what one eats alone seems to gravitate toward one of two poles: it either sounds apologetically quaint, or unapologetically pathetic.
Does cooking alone need to be quaint or glamorous? Alternately, does it need to be a self-consciously sincere admission of weird, gross habits? Is there anything wrong with it being ordinary, banal, and just plain lonely, as it is for so many people? I wonder about people who cook alone in giant mansions with echoing, shadowy kitchens rather than cozy New York lofts. It makes me think of my college roommate’s father, a brilliant, successful professor who lives in a huge house with a sparkling kitchen larger than most living rooms. He never cooks, preferring to eat exclusively from restaurants; and I can imagine that a meal alone in such a kitchen would feel almost eerie. Maybe a memoir like that would make a less interesting read than those written by bohemian gourmands, but somehow I would rather know that other people experience the same phases of self-cooking drudgery that I do, in which nothing sounds good and one goes to bed hungry. I appreciate the book’s uplifting message that solitary cooking and dining can be empowering, but cooking alone is not all imported olives and white wine for one. In reality, it’s often just sad.
That said, my personal favorite thing about cooking and eating alone – and this seems to be shared among many of the authors in this book – is the freedom to experiment without the pressure of feeding other people. If I make something mediocre at home, I just eat it anyway, whereas presenting a plate of mediocre food to others leads to a flurry of apologies and self-deprecation. The editor of Alone in the Kitchen With an Eggplant prefaces her introduction with a quote from Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway: “It is the privilege of loneliness; in privacy one may do as one chooses.”
As for eggplant, there is no way to prepare this vegetable that doesn’t involve some sort of slicing, dicing, oiling, roasting, sautéing or grilling. You can’t just spread eggplant onto a piece of bread, nor can you munch on it raw like bell peppers or carrots. Even in its most basic roasted form, eggplant requires time and energy. Which means that, unless you are floating in a sea of free time (as few of us are), cooking eggplant is always a means of treating yourself. That’s what makes this vegetable both annoying and special: eggplant forces you to cook. Maybe the cure for cooking ennui is to find oneself alone in the kitchen with an eggplant, then just see what happens.(Aww, how quaint.)
