A horrible meal for a terrible day

Some people can't keep their emotions off their faces. I can't keep mine out of my cooking.

Last Wednesday was a terrible day. I can't say much about it except this: It was the kind of day where you find yourself at 5 p.m. with two children not your own, heading to your house because you have nowhere else to take them, and they are scared, and they have seen things that no child should see and you are telling them that they will be OK, and you hope the words are true.

So what do you do on a day like this? When your children and these children are playing and laughing, but there is a frantic edge to their laughter and their voices are pitched just little too high and loud, like they are playing because they want to keep themselves by force in a world where playing makes sense.

What you do is make dinner. They are children, and it is now 6 p.m. And they are hungry.

Wednesdays are not, in general, a high cuisine kind of night in our house. I usually get home from work and face three hungry kids and a half empty fridge. On Wednesdays we eat things like stir-fry made out of whatever veggies are left in the bottom bin, or pasta with a quick sauce and a salad. If I've remembered to defrost some meat, maybe something will go on the grill. I keep a supply of canned beans for Wednesday nights, just in case.

I walked into my kitchen and opened my fridge, but none of it made any sense to me. We were out of veggies, but there were some chicken thighs. It didn't matter. I couldn't get my mind to work. I followed my hands, and they led me to a pile of onions on the counter. I started chopping. One onion. Then another. Then another. I had no idea what to do with them, but at least I was moving. The onions were strong and my eyes blinked and squeezed shut and blinked again. So much pain. My friend in the hospital. The children. There was an eerie silence where my feelings should have been. Onion tears were all I had.

I still didn't know what to do. So I started the way you start: olive oil into the bottom of a pan. The onions followed. Some how I wanted caramelized brown strings of sweetness. They settled in to a slow sizzle. I let them be and turned to the chicken.

My hands poured flour in one bowl and eggs in another. Adobo went into the flour, black pepper, there were other things that my hands added while my mind watched pictures of my friend's face, of her beautiful eyes. I dredged the chicken pieces first in the flour, then in the egg. I pushed the onions to one side and added the thighs to the bottom of the pan.

If I had left well enough alone things might have been fine. But when I get nervous or upset, I always tend to reach for a lemon, usually with bad results. This night was no different. I'm not sure what the draw of lemon is at these times. Some how it always seems like when I am lost, or muddled, or looking for something that is missing -- like my heart, or my mind -- a tight blast of lemon might bring things back into focus. But it rarely works. It is like slapping yourself or hitting your head against a wall, you feel something, but it doesn't solve anything.

I knew from the moment the fork sunk into the yellow pulp that the lemon was a mistake, but it was too late. Now all the longed for sweetness was gone and the dish had gone sharp, almost bitter. I didn't know if there was any bringing it back. I needed a drink. I had a cup of cider sitting next to the stove. I brought the cup to my lips and then pulled it away. My hand hovering above the pan. I tipped the cup and poured the rest of my drink into the chicken.

The chicken cooked the rest of the way in the lemony cider and onions. When it was done, I set the table and poured seven glasses of water. I called the children to the table. What ever else had happened on this day, there would be dinner. We started the way we start. Our hands reached for the hands next to them. Lord we thank you for this food and for ... We gave thanks for the table, the food and the hands that held us.

The chicken was awful, but we ate it all.