I GOT A RANDOM PHONE CALL from my younger sister the other afternoon.
"Jenny," she said, "I'm at the grocery store right now and I've got a question. What is a clove of garlic?"
Pausing for a moment I pondered a question I never imagined I'd have to answer—especially not when inquired by the daughter of Tracy Christen, and granddaughter of Alice Leonard, the singing-dancing-cooking-hostess extraordinaire-all-knowing-glowing-Midwestern accent'ing-domino playing-tea connoisseuring-French birdwatching debutante of North Hill, Minot, North Dakota, United States of America, aye.
Of course I know what a clove of garlic is. I Slap-Chop one or two a week for various dips and hotdishes that I conjure up. (By the way, spell check is trying to tell me that "hotdishes" isn't a word, but I know better.) I also learned the hard way what a garlic clove is: I'm not sure, but I probably asked someone the same ridiculous question.
My sister continued with her dilemma. "I've got this recipe you see, and it calls for six cloves of garlic. So what do I get? What's a clove?"
I scraped together my best explanation. "A clove of garlic…a clove of…you know the whole ball of garlic? Well, that's a bulb. And all the little petals on it, the pieces of garlic, each of those are cloves."
"Okay, whew," she said in relief. "I'll put all these back."
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Later that evening I texted my sister. "Did you really ask me earlier what a clove of garlic was? And what are you making anyway?"
A quick response told me that she was making dinner for her "dude": Chicken and sautéed veggies. No occasion, just making dinner. My initial thought was, "Like hell, you're making dinner." My sister has never been acquainted with anything in a kitchen other than a microwave and refrigerator. Throughout the years she's actually gracefully mastered escaping the "helping mom out" portion of every family function, save making the 7-layer dip (a recipe equivalent of a Kindergarten art project, respectively. In her defense, she makes a damn fine 7-layer dip.) I lived with her for an entire year and the only food I ever witnessed her preparing was peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with a side of potato chips—her way of getting out of cooking AND dishes. She has Carnation INSTANT BREAKFAST for breakfast. Last Christmas I asked her to frost some gingerbread men. They looked like they had special needs.
I asked my sister, "Do you even know what sautéing is?" I couldn't imagine her knowing any kitchen terms aside from "knife," "fork," "spoon," or "straw" (which she drinks everything out of—seriously). Our microwave, "Half Pint," has two buttons on it: One to add a minute to the time, one to cancel. Heidi used it to make everything. So could a baby monkey.
Her response? "I'll Google it."
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The next day I was at home minding my own business, eating a snack in my kitchen/living room (they're the same room) when unexpectedly, the door flies open. It was my sister, entering in the same manner as a frazzled Kramer enters Jerry Seinfeld's apartment—a loud, impromptu burst through the entrance followed by some statement that attests to their unexpected arrival.
"Oh, HEY."
"What are you doing here?" I asked. "I didn't know you were coming. How did you know I was here?"
"I didn't. I was going to leave this outside the door for you." (In true Alice Leonard fashion.)
She handed over a small container of what looked like puréed Thanksgiving. I remembered that I'd jokingly told her to save me some sautéed veggies from her culinary trials, saying "You? Cooking? I have to taste it to believe it!" But I should have known, my sister doesn't joke about these things. I was now about to literally eat my words.
"It's really good!" she insisted.
"I bet. What's in it? Any meat?"
"No meat." But she couldn't identify anything else. "It's what we drizzled over our chicken. Really good."
I was skeptical, but made silent plans to eat it for an upcoming meal. My sister, the bearer of hearty, questionable leftovers, dismissed herself.
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It looked like lunch. Or more so, like every meal of the day liquidized in a food processor. Or perhaps, the surprise my dog leaves on the floor when her stomach doesn't agree with what she's eaten. Also, it looked like it was removed from a stomach, mid-digestion.
I put it in Half Pint, pressed the minute button twice, and waited—for a good smell to start wafting through my apartment. I wanted to be wrong about this meal. I wanted it to be a culinary extravaganza.
It was ready to eat.
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All those years of my sister escaping "helping out mom" in the kitchen, all that PB&J making, the arduous recipe of mixing her Crystal Lite To-Go packets with a bottle of water, all the non-meals of Lean Cuisines and ice cream with the Reeses' "Magic Shell," dag nabbit if she didn't have to work her magic on the Magic Shell…
All her skills boiled down to this one meal, "Chicken and sautéed veggies"—every last dime-sized chunk of garlic, onions sliced like puzzle pieces, and who-knows-what-else mixed into a base I've yet to identify—and she proved herself.
I wanted to be wrong about my sister's cooking. I really did.
