How to Cook Pasta for Your Mother-in-Law During the Covid-19 Crisis by Patricia Lawler Kenet

                      barbara w CC



How to Cook Pasta for Your Mother-in-Law During the Covid-19 Crisis


Step One – Boil water, this requires patience. You must be vigilant and not wander around the house looking for your husband or begin to read a book about robots in love and forget your obligations. Your mother-in-law is in isolation in the apartment next door and she’s hungry (though she won’t admit it). So, stand at attention and wait for the silvery bubbles to rise like pearls. 

Step Two – Add salt, this requires judgement. Your own mother, dead for thirty years now, never really told you how much salt to add, or for that matter, whether you even needed it. Though she was a first generation Italian-American, she was not interested in traditional cooking. The food she served was either undercooked or burnt black, often at the same time. Your mother-in-law has survived your own mother by three decades and you find yourself staring at the white salt crystals as if they are the sands of time, passing top to bottom.

Step Three – Find a whole wheat, gluten free, organic brand of pasta to pour into the water, this requires prosperity. Your mother-in-law is health conscious, the same weight she was when she graduated college. Your mother finished 5th grade and then went to work painting battleships. She grew stout and round in her later years. Your mother-in-law is wary of electro-magnetic radiation, 5G networks and caramel coloring in soy sauce. She has opinions about vaccines. You disagree, find the fears groundless, irrational but button your lip. Your mother’s cancer was widely metastatic at the time of diagnosis, already seeped into her bones like cat claws. It is your unscientific opinion that your brother’s heroin addiction and incarceration were more carcinogenic than soy sauce. Your mother-in-law is well taken care of by her two physician sons, one of whom is your husband. And you are well taken care of by him, spoiled, in fact. You have left behind a childhood of neglect and live the good life of a guilty survivor. You are aware of the people who can’t shelter in place because they are poor. You are aware of your white privilege and your obligation to inform your side of the family about their racism though they have built walls around their opinions. You are aware that you are in your own self-imposed quarantine of fear of being unloved. You want to wear a t-shirt that says “I’m on your side” and this makes you a coward.

Step Four – Stir gently, wait until the pasta is al dente, this requires equanimity. You can’t rush this part nor can you let things go too long or the noodles will disintegrate. Your father was the better cook. He fried meatballs on Sunday morning, savoried with fresh parsley, thin shards of garlic and onion. He never drank beer straight from the bottle, but poured Schmidt’s into a glass, diluting the anxiety that ran through his bloodstream like a wraith. Your mother-in-law is content in her apartment with her Havanese and doesn’t complain that she hasn’t been outside for ten weeks. She’s calm about being held captive because if that’s what it takes to survive, she’ll do it. She’s your role model for aging well, though you are certain you won’t live as long. That suits you. The global pandemic is like the earth spitting us all in the face. It’s a sneak preview of what’s to come. 

Step Five – Drain, add a touch of olive oil, salt, pepper, and a jar of crushed tomatoes, this requires confidence. You want this to be the perfect dish. You are hoping it is good enough for your mother-in-law whom you want to please though you are not sure why. You wish that you could not give a shit either way. That pleasing her was pleasureful instead of a mixed bag of love and rage. Your mother-in-law once said: “You’ll get your figure back”(referring to your body) a year after you had a baby. You wonder if this is her wish, her weapon, her hope, her love. You have the stocky body of your mother, wide wrists, full thighs. You have the wistful demeanor of your father. Your husband often tells you to stop staring into space. Where do you go, you wonder? Sometimes your heart feels like a crushed tomato when you consider the sorrow you see and the sorrow you feel inside for the events of this cursed year.

Step Six – Deliver the meal, this requires courage. You pack up the pasta in a bowl, cover it with tin foil, put on a mask, enter the lobby, take the elevator, buzz her apartment and run six feet down the hall away from her door. How many particulates have you encountered on your journey? Can you see her smile behind the mask? Will she like the dish? Are you now and forever the perfect daughter-in-law? What can you cook tomorrow that will be better? Chicken thighs or brownies or rice and beans, or a carrot cake with cream cheese frosting? According to the edict of her other physician son, she’s not allowed to leave the house until there’s an effective vaccine. It could be a year. Two years.  OK, you say to yourself. That gives me enough time.

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I was born in Philadelphia and always felt the urge to express myself in writing, though I was sidelined by law school. I spent 15 years practicing law and working in legal journalism as a reporter for Medical News Network and New Jersey Network.

My work has been in "The Washington Post," "McSweeney's" and "Little Old Lady Comedy."

I have had several of my plays accepted in festivals and produced by "A Light in Dark Places" and "The Aloha Festival." 

I now live in New York City.
Patricialawlerkenet.com  @lawlerkenet

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