It’s my birthday!
My parents visited earlier in the week, and we had a long lunch on a rainy Chicago day. Christian made me a coconut cake, a call back to Peninsula Grill’s version that changed both of our lives on a trip to Charleston years ago. A couple of friends are coming over later to share some Lambrusco and play board games. It’s been full of love and flowers and thoughtful notes from people and quality time—I should have no complaints.
But…I have one complaint. About myself. About my unique ability to inhale a smile, a laugh, a lighthearted something and exhale irritation, searing accusations, pursed lips. At the start of the week, while Christian and I were chatting about the week's plans and making the grocery list and, honestly, having a very boring, average conversation, I was suddenly overcome with anger. My body became hot, my muscles tight and strained.
“Do you still want to make that potato salad and nachos for your parents tomorrow?”
I didn’t answer. I aggressively scrubbed a sheet tray in the sink and ignored the question.
“I mean…I could pick up stuff to make something else or…we could go to the deli…”
I still didn’t answer. I scrubbed harder at the now already clean sheet tray.
“V?”
“I’ll just cook, I can…we have stuff, so I’ll cook.” I shut the water off and looked at Christian. His brow furrowed. His eyes looked deep into mine with streams of questions, trying to figure out what had flared my temper. Moments prior I was telling him about these Cheerios that have oat clusters, saying I’d get some at the store because they sounded like something he’d like. He was telling me that the coconut cake recipe he found was from Alison Roman, and I playfully rolled my eyes and said something about how all recipes felt like Alison Roman’s now. We laughed. We were still in pajamas.
He finally responded, “Well, that doesn’t seem to be what you want to do, so why don’t—”
“No, Rish, it’s fine. I want to cook.” The words were icy in my mouth. Christian left the room, sensing that maybe I just needed space.
I kept washing dishes and searching in the nooks of my wooden cutting board for the source of my anger. I knew it wasn’t Christian. Or my parents visiting. Or Alison Roman. I knew it must be so confusing to be sharing excitement with your partner for all of the food you were going to share this week—from the Cheerios to the birthday cake—and then feel like that food was also ruining their birthday. I knew the source of my anger, and that knowing made me angrier.
“Why don’t I—” from the other room, Christian was still trying to find a solution that didn’t exist in him, and it made me burn hotter with shame.
“No, Rish. Leave it alone. I want to cook, it’s literally not an issue.” The silence from him stung. I hated that I just couldn't shake the word literally from my vocabulary. And I hated that my words were attacking him for trying, when what I felt like doing was blowing up my own brain and politely requesting a new one from whoever was in charge of that kind of thing.
The truth is that my eating disorder brain is a mean s.o.b. The idea of cooking something for lunch because I wanted it, eating even a sliver of coconut cake after eating whatever I wanted, and continuing to go to dinners and eat out with friends throughout the week after coconut cake, triggered me. Our conversation, innocent as it seemed, thrust forward the part of me—the disorder—that believes I simply cannot eat what I want like other people. I am not like them, my brain says, I can’t handle the responsibility, and my body can’t handle the impending weight. When I give myself a moment to notice this chain of thinking forming, sometimes I can laugh off how ridiculous it is. But sometimes I don’t catch it right away, and the feelings get away from me and a sudden and tenacious rage takes over. My whole body attempts to release the anger on whoever is around me. My responses become short and sharp. My eyes glaring. My cheeks tie-dye pink and red. It’s been with Christian more than once. My mom. My siblings. Friends. Strangers.
The one who has carried the heaviest weight of this anger has been my dad. As I started to experiment with cooking, I started to experiment with restricting my food, but that wasn’t immediately obvious. There were years when I hid my disorder under the guise of healthy eating, and my dad was always so curious about it. I’d make separate meals for myself, mostly cooked vegetables—hot salads—and he’d ask me all kinds of questions about them. How long do you roast them? Do you coat them in oil or something? What kinds of seasonings? When I started eating oatmeal for breakfast, he started making oatmeal, too. He asked me many times how exactly I made mine, what portion sizes, how much peanut butter. Each question felt like an attack on my new identity, so I fought back by saying, I don’t know a lot, sometimes just ignoring him completely. Sometimes I would answer, but I would mumble lies, like saying I used tablespoons-worth of peanut butter when I could never allow myself a full teaspoon. Lies because I knew normal people could eat tablespoons of peanut butter, but I simply couldn’t. And that made me furious, so I responded with that fury.
For years, I’d be so mean to my dad in these moments when he was trying to connect. We’d be up early together, and he’d offer to make my oatmeal with his—thinking they were identical—and I would snap. I would launch glares and huffs of contempt towards him. It’s a wonder he only occasionally would comment about me seeming to wake up on the wrong side of the bed. And only once I started with a new therapist a few years ago did I reminisce on these moments and finally connect them as one and the same as some of my angry outbursts with Christian or my friends when dinner plans changed or strangers when they took the last bags of my peanut butter granola at the store. They were all reactions from my eating disorder, pissed off about someone or some situation encouraging me to listen to my body, to eat what I wanted, to go against its plans for me. They were little moments of debilitating frustration because somewhere deep inside, I also knew the disordered part of me was dangerously wrong for trying to hijack my freedom to just eat.
To be clear, my complaint with myself today is not that this anger arises. That’s something I have come to understand as part of my disorder, something I didn’t choose. My brain has parts of it that were triggered once, twice, countless times to believe that I am worthy only in the pursuit of thinness and perfection. Anything and anyone who believes something else is a threat. Threats to be livid with, to fight with words and glares and unexplained disdain. I’ve come to accept that some of this may never fully leave me, but that doesn’t mean I must engage with and embrace those parts of me. I can notice, accept, and lovingly bury them under the parts of me that yearn for coconut cake and nachos.
My complaint is with the way I didn’t explain how I was feeling in the moment to Christian—I just snapped. I knew what was happening and instead of carving deeper into a new path of managing the anger, I reverted to young Vanessa, in the kitchen with her dad, icily avoiding his eyes and punishing his genuine care and interest. Instead of taking a moment to breathe and notice the anger and its source as the irrational part of me that isn’t me, I leaned into it. I wore that part of me like the honored, time-trusted armor that it is.
But that isn’t me. I don’t want that armor. It makes my eyes well with joyful tears that Christian would try to recreate that cake we shared on our first trip away together. When I ate my first bite seven years ago, he took a photo of me because he always wanted me to remember how happy and whole food could make me feel. And I love filling my parents up with some of my favorite recipes as they stop in Chicago, easing their sulk back to Ohio after a devastating Minnesota Vikings defeat. I’m so excited about this potato salad I made for them, I can hardly finish writing because I can’t wait to share it with you!
There is space for it all. I have the capacity to love cake and be excited about it and still be a little uncomfortable and angry, too. What’s better for me and for my relationships is accepting the anger and acknowledging it out loud. Naming it instantly disempowers it. Because saying some of these feelings out loud —saying I’m angry that Christian is making me a birthday cake and that I have to eat potato salad, too—makes them feel as absolutely ridiculous and irrational as they are. Accepting the presence of my anger helps it not become me.
I’m not going to dwell on it. This has been a wonderful birthday. I aired my grievance. I vulnerably—or maybe stupidly? It’s still too early to tell—shared it with you. Now, I can move on to enjoying the rest of my birthday week. Hopefully I will feel more empowered to share my anger out loud sooner next time. For Christian’s and my dad’s sakes, I’m sure they’d appreciate it if I gave them a little more insight into how a conversation about grocery shopping can morph into a fit of rage.
Now, about that coconut cake…don't let my haphazard first slice fool you this is a solid cake. Literally, in that it’s rich and the texture is sturdy with all of the coconut bolstering its insides. But it’s also somehow soft? Pillowy, even, and the frosting lifts each bite with its subtle brightness. And the coconut chips come in swinging with a little texture. It makes for a very good birthday cake and inspired me to preorder Roman's forthcoming dessert cookbook.
But what you’re really here for, or what you should be here for—no offense Alison, this is my blog—is elote corn-inspired potato salad. I feel like this combination must exist elsewhere, but don’t go looking because you’re here, and this recipe is the definition of crowd-pleaser. Elote corn gets beefed up with potatoes, and because I’m a texture fanatic, I add some crunchy corn nuts into the mix. The results, I believe, are best served warm, when the cheese is gooey and the mayo sort of melts into the corn and potatoes, and the corn nuts are still crisp. But I also find real joy in eating this at room temperature or cold from the fridge. The chili starts to penetrate more bites and the corn nuts soften a bit into a satisfying, just slightly more than al dente bite. And if you’re thinking this sounds kind of heavy, it’s not! It’s got bright scallions and lime juice to lift it up, and if I wasn’t making it for my parents, I would add cilantro to the mix, too. It’s a great side for taco night, with burgers, or all on its own before you devour a slice of coconut cake.
I’d love to know what you think if you make this potato salad. Even if it makes you feel angry, let’s unpack that! Whether it’s this salad or coconut cake or something else on your list, I hope you eat something delicious today. Until next time, love to you <3
Elote Corn-Inspired Potato Salad
Serves 6-ish, depending on how hungry your crew is
3 pounds russet or golden potatoes, diced into 1 inch cubes
1 pound bag frozen corn or 2 cans sweet corn, drained & rinsed
½ cup mayonnaise (I prefer Duke’s)
¼ cup lime juice
1 ½ teaspoon chili powder
¼ teaspoon chipotle powder
1 garlic clove, finely minced
½ cup chopped corn nuts, plus more for garnish
½ cup crumbled queso fresco, plus more for garnish
¼ cup chopped scallions, plus more for garnish
¼ cup chopped cilantro, plus more for garnish
Preheat your oven to 425 degrees. Spray two sheet trays with vegetable oil spray.
In a large mixing bowl, toss the potatoes in a glug of olive oil (about ¼ cup), a generous pinch of salt (I use kosher salt, so I probably used at least two whole teaspoons) and about four cracks of black pepper. Spread out evenly across the two sheet trays and roast until the potatoes are golden honey brown, tossing every ten minutes or so to try to color all sides, about 40 minutes total.
While the potatoes cook, wipe out any excess oil from the mixing bowl and set it aside (you’ll put the whole salad in this bowl eventually). You can also make the dressing now. In a separate, small mixing bowl, combine the mayo, lime juice, chili and chipotle powders, and garlic clove. Whisk together with a pinch of salt and set aside.
Empty the potatoes into that large mixing bowl, the one you originally tossed the raw potatoes in. Now, crank the oven heat to 450 and on the now-empty sheet trays, spread the corn out, sprinkling it with about a teaspoon-sized pinch of salt and a few cracks of pepper. Roast the corn until it’s soften and charred, tossing once or twice, about fifteen minutes. This is a good time to chop your scallions, cilantro, and corn nuts if you haven’t already.
Once the sheet trays of corn look kind of like giraffe spots, where some are still yellow, some caramel and some near burnt, empty the trays into the big bowl with the potatoes. While everything is still warm, toss with the dressing. As with most mayo-based dressings, I like to add half, maybe three-fourths of the dressing to make sure it’s not too wet. You can also add the scallions and corn nuts now. See how it looks, if it’s still seems a little dry or if you try a bite and aren't getting much chili powder, add the rest of the dressing. If not, crumble in the queso and toss gently until combined. Taste it here to see if you need additional salt or another squeeze of lemon juice.
Garnish the top with extra queso, corn nuts, cilantro and scallions, and eat right away. Or in an hour. Or stick it in the fridge and eat it tomorrow. I think each way you eat it gives new highlights to the dish. While warm, the cheese is gooey and corn nuts are still extra crispy so that textures are stellar. At room temperature, the salad is a little more solid and the corn nuts have softened a bit so they aren’t as aggressively crispy, which is kind of nice. Chilled overnight, everything sort of becomes a vehicle for the bright and smoky dressing.
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