Making Roasted Potatoes

by
Ayah Al-Masyabi

When I cook, I wear large black headphones to entertain myself through possible hours of labor. However, after many comments from my family about how I am always wearing my headphones, I decided to listen to the silence that is not very silent. There is a combined hum of our fridge and water dispenser, along with the swishing of water cleaning dishes in the dishwasher. My mom and brother are chattering downstairs, although I can’t tell whether they are laughing or arguing.

I usually make these roasted potatoes for me and five other very hungry people, most of whom have some Irish blood, and love eating the crispy, carb-filled wonders. Depending on the type of potato, I need to cut about six to twenty of them. Standing at the edge of a counter with a pile of cleaned potatoes to my side and a large white cutting board in front, I grab our best knife. It’s long and sharp,just perfect for cutting potatoes.

As I chop away, first cutting them in half, then in half again, and then in thirds, I realize how American it feels to be making roasted potatoes. I can remember millions of American shows and movies that had a variety of proteins with sides that almost always included this delicacy. Is this an American thing? That is a question I need to google later. It’s not like I don’t feel American enough, but having a messy multicultural background, it is oddly affirming and comforting. I wonder if other people feel this way.

When I finish, I take out two oven pans and lay them on the counter next to our oven. As I lay out the parchment paper, I remind myself that since these pans are thicker, the potatoes will take much longer to cook. Looking at the clock, I realized I had more than enough time. I try to get an equal amount of the chopped potatoes on both pans and fail, then drizzle some olive oil, but not too much, so my dad doesn’t complain.

I carefully push over spices in our messy spice cabinet, trying to find the ones I need. The salt and pepper are the easiest to find, but the rest are hidden behind the nearly hundred spice bottles. As my hand grabs hopefully at random containers, just to find cumin and not garlic, a gripping thought pops up in my mind: I wonder if anyone loves me. It is then I remember why I am not a fan of silence.

Found the white pepper. Why would anyone love me? I am just a burden and an annoyance. Found the garlic and onion powders. A sinking feeling sets in, Why? Why? I shrug as I struggle to think of anything. Found the Costco Brand no-salt. What if no one loves me? I shake my head, hair swinging from side to side, trying to expel these thoughts.

The last ingredient, nutritional yeast, is on the top shelf hiding behind the large jar of powdered ginger. I line up all the bottles next to the two pans, excited for the most delicious part of the process of roasted potatoes. But I frown, I hate this feeling – the feeling of utter loneliness. My stomach feels heavy as I reach out for the garlic powder and heavily dump the key flavor onto layers of potatoes. I take a deep breath, starting to rehearse a self-curated reminder proving that maybe people love me. I begin with a recent memory of my dad buying Peacock ten minutes before a USWNT game started. He wanted to go exercise and I could have acted more maturely, i.e. been nicer about the situation. He could have easily said no, but he did it, and I can’t find any other reason why he did it other than because he loves me.

I generously add the onion powder and salt. I remember people being there when I needed them most. Hugging me as I cried, feeling lost except when in their arms. I sprinkle in the black and white pepper, both flavors you don’t want too much of. I remember playing games together, fighting, and then making up. The gifts that, every time I see them, make me feel special and cared for. I don’t add too much of the no-salt. The hours spent laughing at TV shows together. Time spent talking about our mutual loves and hates. Finally, my favorite, and most excessively used: nutritional yeast, a mostly unknown ingredient that adds an extra element of cheesiness.

I grab a metal spatula to mix the chunks of potatoes into heaps of seasonings. It is hard at first, but after a few mixes, you get a hang of it. The best way to know if it’s ready is by the mouthwatering smell, with strong notes of onion, garlic, and saltiness. I slide the pans into our oven vertically and set a timer for twenty minutes.

The overly annoying ring-ring of the oven alarm immediately stops my fingers from flying over my keyboard. In fear of burning all my hard work, I jump from my seat. I run straight to the oven and peek into the heated cave. My glasses fog and I grab a cloth to pull out the pans. The large cuts of potatoes boil in oil, edges covered in seasoning slightly darker around the bottom. As I mix them around the almost-sweet smells of garlic, onion, and salt with a hint of cheesiness fill my nostrils.

That smell recharges my soul. It fills me with a sense of comfort, warm and flavorful, like a hug from a loving grandparent. It reminds me of a home I never had but making every time I pick up a knife, use a spatula, measure flour, sprinkle salt, or pull braised meat apart. I was taught, or told to believe, that food and culture were something sacred and passed down from mother to daughter until time ended. That I should treasure and hold it so close to my chest that it beats along with my heart.

But what if your mother’s mother never taught her how to cut an apple, much less showed her how to love? What if your father left his country with no knowledge about food and was scared to share his own culture? What if your mother was taught to cook by old generous friends, now lost, from all over the world, in mosques you have never been to? What if your father learned about food from friends all over Western Asia in college and discovered the power of heat? What if you have no culture to call your own, except the blank term “Multicultural American”? What if everyone wants you to claim one to call your own and dig into your roots that are too deep and painful to reach? What if you’re just an integral idea of the American ideal? What if you’re just a mixing pot?

After a couple more turns of mixing the potatoes, both the potatoes and other elements for dinner are ready to eat. I had many thoughts every time I was disrupted from my work: I wondered if we would win the NBA again; I guessed how many pills I would have to take before I ate; I hoped that when I swallowed those pills I wouldn’t feel consuming panic; I wondered if our cat was still sleeping; and I thought about whether it was a good idea to change my life plans because of a newfound passion that had been sitting within me for so long.

I am sitting between my sister and brother, ready to eat. The dining room TV is loudly presenting the intro to a new cooking show by Gordon Ramsey, “Next Level Chef.” We are in the first season, and I am rooting for Mariah to win with her international cuisine. I sit in front of a plate full of my delicious roasted potatoes, a casserole-style moussaka Mom made, and a refreshing salad of lettuce, parsley, and lemon juice. They are like Legos fitting perfectly together. I see that my brother has more potatoes compared to anyone else, while my sister has the most moussaka on her plate. As they begin to eat, staring at the TV, I look away and glance around me. They are smiling, gladly reaching for extra spoonfuls, and most importantly oozing joy. I pick up the two pills I had put down a couple of minutes earlier and grab my cup of water. I swallow them quickly and eat a couple of bites of food before the initial panic starts to wear off. Eyes back on the TV, seeing Ramsey introduce a new challenge, I realize that this time, eating was a lot easier, and the panic was tinier. Maybe it’s because I am around loving family, or because the food is tasty, but either way, I find myself smiling along with them all and feeling joy from deep within.

Text © Ayah Al-Masyabi 2024. All Rights Reserved.