Salt, Acid, Fat, Heat
These are the flavors needed to make good food. I learned of this concept from Samin Nosrat’s Netflix series. It’s simple and beautiful — it spans across cultures and techniques. I think of the type of food that makes your mouth water once it hits every other sense before your stomach — the smell, the look, and even the sound of a hot pan. And then the taste. The kind of taste that can make you travel across the world or can outlive a memory of the past.
Good food — it transports you, places you, grounds you.
As I watch my husband diligently dice garlic for dinner, I wonder if the same recipe can be applied to a marriage. I sip on a dry red, taking in the mess of a kitchen that is more ritual than routine for our partnership. Salt, acid, fat, heat. There must be some truth in applying these elements to our lives outside of the kitchen — probably the second room in our house most filled with love beyond the bedroom.
He sprinkles salt into a sizzling pan, wiping his hands on his black apron. I am wearing a matching white one (I told you we take this cooking thing seriously). And I think: basics. Last week, we made a stir fry so oversalted it wasn’t edible. Either a dish has too much or it is desperate for salt — you have to taste it to know because salt never, ever lies. And there is no one in the world who can see our history, not the way we can taste it when I kiss his mouth and taste all of our wounds, open, raw, singing with pain.
My past has taught me, like a dish salted too late after it has already been cooked, you can’t love without honesty first. You can’t go back. The chemistry just doesn’t work that way.
I look over, the scent of lemon juice split from a knife catching my attention. My husband smiles at me, revealing a yellow rind where his teeth should be; it makes me throw my head back in laughter. Acidity may seem sour or bitter on the surface, but it is in fact quite the opposite, as it lends itself to something bright or fresh. It wakes you up. Love should remind you fiercely and undeniably: I am alive. I am happy to be alive with you.
My husband is an incredible chef, but his mastery lies in the smoker in our backyard. When he brings the meat inside to rest, we like to pretend our food is sleeping, slumbering away in anticipation for our feast. Good meat means good fat. To me, fat translates to abundance and prosperity and fleshy excess. He trims a piece off the edge and hands me the first bite. How did we reach a point in our relationship of having excess goodness?
I think the answer is in the giving. It means doing the dishes after he is done cooking. Letting go of the stupid fights. Putting the phone away. We give and give to each other so we can have more.
That leaves us with the last element — heat. His personal favorite. I’ve put hot sauce bottles in his Christmas stocking before. My mother packs chili peppers and jalapeños in her suitcase to make him traditional spicy ají when she visits. But he is always careful to not overdo it for my not-quite-as-intense palette. Still, we love it. The spices have outgrown the rack and taken over our cabinets. Often, a sudden and overwhelming sense of gratitude floods my body as I watch this man manifest his love for me on a plate, and it is so easy to find myself wrapping my arms around him, hot skin, lips found, the kind of heat that swells and fills every corner of your body. The kind of heat that has never dared to burn me. It only binds us closer.
When we sit down to finally enjoy our labor and craft, I am always eager to consume quickly. My hunger is impatient. He always takes his time, picking out the best beverage to accompany the meal, and putting the final touches. Balance, we grin at each other before prayer and lifting our forks.
Much of meal time discussion is centered on the food shows we are watching for inspiration or dishes from the past. We think about ingredients, brainstorm ideas for weekday dinners, and vow to attempt something new soon (homemade pie crust, sushi rolls, and dumplings are on the list). We scheme to make a late-night dessert later, even though our bellies are terribly full. I realize now how amazingly blessed we are to enjoy this process together, because we are bound to repeat it a million times over each and every day of marriage.
Whenever I remember, and am particularly proud, I snap a quick picture of our meal before devouring. This is to send to my parents. They always send one back. I think to myself…this love language was most definitely taught to me.
I can eat a plate of arroz con pollo and swallow a piece of my childhood whole, everything from the yellow Goya rice to my mother’s culture and upbringing. And with absolute certainty, I know, this is who I am.
I can hold my husband’s hand and everything else disappears. All the noise, the distractions, the hardness of this world. For a moment, I am just a girl meeting a boy for coffee on a first date again, all nerves and butterflies. A thumb grazes my palm and I know exactly where I want to be — here.
Salt, acid, fat, heat. Honesty, laughter, service, and passion. They are all the same. Simple, beautiful, and effective ingredients. I don’t claim to be an expert on cooking or marriage or really anything, but all of this has brought me to one very fundamental lesson.
Good love —it transports you, places you, grounds you.
And good love makes very, very good food.
