I delicately pluck the leaves off of the mint, cilantro, parsley, basil, and oregano. It smells like a garden in the kitchen, lush and delicious. I’m making Molly Baz’s “Anything Goes” Green Goddess dressing. Her instructions encourage the reader to choose their own adventure. Don’t have cilantro? Use more parsley. Don’t have parsley? Sub in chervil. (This, I would like to note, is not a corner store herb; it is most likely to be found at your nearest Whole Foods or organic market.) No sour cream? Labneh works! Anything goes, Baz says, and I guess I just have to go with it, despite myself. Usually, If I’m missing a particular ingredient, I check three different stores to find it. My particular affliction is wanting—better, more, this not that, love, magic, power, growth, a specific set of herbs to use for this recipe.
I tend towards baking and cooking when I’m feeling unlovable and useless, which is often nowadays. From the most overwrought and unnecessarily elaborate recipes to the simplest ones, I am a friend to them all. “You are in your mid-20s,” my therapist says to me, as if that is explanation enough. But she is right in some ways. I’m two years into my first real job after college, my first time living on my own. I’m in my lost era. The moods roll through like storms, I’m easily bruised and uncertain—but most of all, I’m hungry.
As I pick my tender herbs and drop them into a bowl, I think of every time I have denied myself pleasure. It’s like that sometimes: You stand there wondering if you have ever truly been on your own side of anything while you pack your lunch for the office. As the butter browns, you fear you are the worst kind of mystery: uncompelling and obvious, like being “trapped” in an escape room. (I forgot to mention I’m also making cookies.)
It’s all quite angsty, and maybe a little cliché.
But the last two years have been decidedly difficult for me. I have smoked too many cigarettes, picked my nails down to the quick, cried in bed, cried on stoops, cried on walks, had too many drinks alone, lied about my feelings, shrunk away when I should’ve been assertive, punished my body, starved myself, complained too much (sorry, friends!), avoided showers, avoided mirrors, felt ugly, resisted change and then begged for it, acted powerless, pushed people away, dismissed myself, wallowed, felt small, felt empty, failed, failed, and failed again.
In that time, I’ve also made extravagant salad dressings with minced shallot and dijon and grassy olive oil; laid tuna steaks in sesame seeds, dipped ladyfingers in espresso, and chiffonaded herbs (isn’t chiffonade such a great word?); toasted pepitas, covered yeasted rolls with a damp blanket, seared scallops, thickened roux, zested citrus, braised short ribs, caramelized sugar, pitted olives, and crushed peppercorns. Rage and melancholia are pantry staples in my kitchen. With them—or, perhaps, because of them—I have made some delicious fare. Some of my friends think I am a “baker” or “good cook,” which is lovely. But the secret ingredient is always a low-grade yearning for something I cannot name.
The herbs come together in a food processor with crème fraiche, mayonnaise, olive oil, lemon juice, two garlic cloves, and salt and pepper. I watch as the color goes a creamy, pale green. Swiping a finger in to taste (the food processor firmly OFF, of course), I find that the green goddess is velvety with a zippy, herbaceous kick, so delicious you can dip a potato chip in. (Molly Baz actually suggests eating it this way in her recipe.) I stand there quite pleased. Also, three-quarters lonely, and unsure if everyone I know secretly thinks I’m insufferable. But my salad dressing is a small offering to the hunger inside of me. This is an appetite that I have never been able to curb, the one that makes me want to leave a great, big terrible mark on everything. I know what this void tells me to do; the words ring in my head with clarity. Make something, make something, make something.
But what?
I suppose… anything goes. I scrape the green goddess into a bowl.