Curry: the anti-anxiety

On Leonard Lopate's show the other day, author of Trail of Crumbs, Kim Sunée, said you should never cook angry. Leonard asked her if by this she meant that there should always be the ingredient of love detectable in the food. She hesitated for a second and then agreed. Cooking should be a calming and emotionally nourishing practice, she went on, and I couldn't agree more.

At my house this week we've been in the throws of a roommate crisis, yet again. February, the shortest month of the year, is quickly drawing to a close and we need to resign our lease on Saturday! The search for a replacement roommate has dragged on and on, and then the person we thought would take the spot backed out at the last second. To complicate matters even more, one of the existing roommates had a death in the family and had to fly back to Ohio on a moment's notice! Grasping for an answer to our desperate situation I tried to take deep breaths and convince myself it would all work out and be done with in a matter of days. But I love this house and its old molding, the jewel box window where I throw dinner parties, the long hallway, and the way the sun comes in my room each morning. What if no one could take the last room? What if we couldn't resign and I had to move out on two days notice? What if I was about to be homeless? Cooking, quite naturally, was what I needed to do to calm me down. "Don't cook when you're angry." Well, what about when everything in your body is ridden with anxiety? I decided the two states were not exactly the same, and turned to the cupboard to retrieve a can of tomatoes.

I'm not sure if it's the cold or the infrequency of good, fresh fruits and vegetables, but I've been craving tomatoes like nothing else these last few weeks. Oh! for the love of a good tomato! Given the housing crisis, I was in desperate need of comfort food, and I thought pasta and lots of sauce would be just the thing to warm me up and calm me down. But before my hand reached the box of linguine, I spotted chick peas and a potato. Then I remembered the coriander I had in the refrigerator. We would be changing course and making curry instead.

In Comfort Me With Apples, Ruth Reichl describes turning to curry to get her through her own love-loaded housing decision. I can always feel the tug at heart strings as I imagine her, young and in deep consternation, sad and stirring a spicy, soupy pot of curry. I channel Ruth when I'm feeling the same way. "[...]I clung to the comfort of my commune. I felt safe on Channing Way, and I cooked a lot of shrimp curry. It was my way of saying thank you."

As I heated oil and chopped onions and garlic for my own cure, I hoped that maybe the smell of the food would lure someone new and wonderful into our house. The cumin seeds were added to the shiny oil and spitting garlic. I waited for them to "smell," like my Indian cooking teacher, Shibana, always instructed. When the seeds toasted and indeed started to emit their dusty smell (it recalls markets around the world), I added chopped potatoes. Red chili, curry powder, ground cumin, salt, pepper. The potatoes soaked up all the spices and then I added the tomatoes and the chick peas, some raisins because I love them, and let it stew for close to an hour.

While the curry simmered, a Craigslist miracle descended on our abode. Stephanie showed up soaked through from a February rain. We sat in the kitchen talking over the room that is up for rent, and familiarizing ourselves with one another. While she and I reminisced about childhood dance lessons, time traveling in West Africa, and days in the park, Sarah found a last-minute ticket to Cincinatti for her grandfather's funeral. By the time I offered Stephanie the room and sent her back out into the world with one of our extra umbrellas, the curry was ready. I chopped some cilantro and sprinkled it on top, along with a dollop of yogurt. I settled into the couch and turned on Woody Allen's Manhattan. The raisins were plump with juice, the tomatoes just the tanginess I'd been lusting after, and the potatoes and chickpeas filled a spot in me that had been longing. Everything was going to be just fine.