Time, Tenderness, and Yucca

Recovering from a prolonged bout with the flu, I recently felt well enough to cook – a huge victory after a stretch of lethargy and bedrest. Rifling through the freezer, I found a bag of frozen yucca. For those unfamiliar with the joys of this white, starchy tuber, it’s similar to a potato, but more substantial and with a slightly sweet and earthy flavor. For me, it was love at first bite during my first encounter with it at a Latin restaurant in The Bronx circa 1990. The soft, velvety white chunks were served in a delicate sauce of minced garlic, olive oil and fresh lemon – the pungency was divine. Alas, there’s a price to pay for the Nirvana that is yucca, to the tune of time and effort. Yucca is also hard as stone and notoriously difficult to wield into a palatable form. Its tough, waxy skin is problematic to peel, and even the peeled, frozen variety means there will be labor involved. Yucca doesn’t cook quickly. For anyone accustomed to instant gratification, the proper care and cooking of yucca can be a most gratifying project, for it is indeed worth the wait.

So with my newfound energy, I was determined to create a replica of the Latin restaurant version of yucca. First step: peeling and chopping nearly a head of garlic, which, in and of itself took painstaking effort. Then it was on to dicing two shallots and sautéing it all in ghee. Once the garlic and shallots were glassine, I removed them from the pan and poured a box of chicken bone broth into the enamel cast-iron pot. (Bone broth has become my necessary culinary extravagance; I cook everything from rice and pasta to vegetables in it for added nutrition.) As the bone broth came to a boil, I set about chopping the logs of yucca into bite-sized pieces. Again, not easy, given their toughness. Adding the pieces to the simmering broth, the yucca bubbled for 20 minutes covered, then uncovered another ten. Shutting the heat off, I let the softening yucca sit in their broth bath as the steam continued to evaporate. The reason for all this fussiness is less water content in the broth yields a deliciously rich flavor and I was willing to go through the extra time and effort to get it.

My current exercise in meticulous meal preparation is a far cry from how I used to nourish myself. During my younger years, as a bewildered binge-eater sneaking food when I could, my go-to’s were usually fast or frozen food, prepped in an instant and eaten with equal haste so I wouldn’t be caught in the act. All in an attempt to mitigate pain and erase ugly memories that tormented me.

It took me decades to rationally (not punitively) put distance between my mouth and choices like tater tots out of the microwave oven and family-sized cans of ravioli that quelled the dissonant emotions, only for a moment. The numbing was quickly followed by regret, digestion calamities, and the hissing choruses of ‘why’d you do it?’ in my head.

The transition from frantic to deliberate where eating was concerned was by no means a quick one. I’d made too many attempts at force-change to count. Eventually, out of exasperation and fatigue, I dropped the charade because I was only fooling myself. The short version of how I naturally came to prefer yucca over tater tots involves stepping back from the practices of dieting and self-recrimination, and becoming curious about cooking. Not just in terms of nutrition, but through cultural exploration, reading cookbooks, and in general, having some fun with food instead of being militarized by rules. Thanks to PBS, my library, and Indie bookstores, I learned the finer points of Italian cooking from Marcella Hazan (the Julia Child of Italy), Claudia Roden (the ultimate authority on Sephardic cuisine) surprised me with the realization I love fava beans; I delighted in creating replications of British cook Nigella Lawson’s recipes, and Maricel Presilla taught me how to make fragrant sofritos and adobos. The techniques were one aspect of my re-framing. There were also existential elements such as practicing being present when I eat and discovering that delaying gratification only heightened the ritual of feeding myself. The corollary was clear: when I believed I was worth more, the quality of the food I chose to eat elevated in tandem.

From a psychological standpoint, the healing process meant disentangling from my message of origin that said my worth and my weight are one and the same. Again, this took time. No recitation of affirmations would instantly erase subconscious programming. That would be like expecting to remedy a flooded basement with a teaspoon. It was hard, prolonged work but I didn’t want to stay where I was. The labor was tempered by befriending food in a joyful way…the combination worked for me.

The same principles, I’ve realized, apply to emotional healing. Like the art of alchemizing ingredients into a good meal, there’s nothing quite like the necessity of time where healing is concerned. Barring the occasional supernatural miracle, time is an inescapable requirement. Time not only heals, it alchemizes old patterns and wounds into fresh outlooks and inner fortitude.

This was put to the test recently when I decided to redefine and excise some of my oldest relationships. Pretending I wasn’t hurt by micro-aggressions and other bad behaviors were survival skills that no longer served a purpose. Believe me when I say that the setting of the boundaries can be as tumultuous as the running of the bulls, but I craved peace more than denial. The resulting emotions ranged from happy dances of freedom to grieving over the healthy, happy ties that just aren’t destined to be mine where certain people are concerned. This required sitting with sadness and residual anger. I may be a reflective, spiritual person, but I’m aware that I can’t pray a rapid solution into existence, or read a book, or take a seminar and have it all be erased. It takes copious amounts of patience and strength. Healing doesn’t mean erasure; for me, it has meant letting go and letting Grace happen in its own time. Not all that unlike the mysterious yucca, which shall not be properly cooked before its time.

I gazed into the pot as the yucca cooled. The watery stock was thick and glossy, and the snowy white yucca chunks had turned opaque - velvety softness was at last achieved. I smiled as I swirled in the garlic mixture, then ladled gorgeous piles of yucca into my bowl. Splashes of fresh lemon and dark green rivulets of olive oil were the finishing touches. I rejoiced, not only because I could once again smell garlic, but also for knowing that the tender loving care rendered by the dish’s creation was as delicious as the food itself.