Barbacoa

How preparing an elaborate family meal helps pull me out of depression

I’ve felt uninspired in the kitchen for weeks, a tell-tale sign that I’m in a depressive episode. 

This past Thursday night, however, I decided to do something out of my home-cook wheelhouse by recreating food truck-style beef barbacoa tacos for my family. Over the years, I have learned that doing something out of the ordinary interrupts my nervous system in a good way, providing a few desperately-needed hours of relief and calm.

Seeking recipe inspiration, I opened the NYT Cooking app on my phone and found Rick A. Martinez’s barbacoa recipe that appeared authentic in its ingredients list (not in its cooking method) and sent me back to late “city nights,” pre-kids, that required legit street tacos.

My adaptation of the recipe was this: three pounds of boneless chuck roast from a local farm; a head of garlic; one small yellow onion; a small bag of dried New Mexican chiles; two chipotles en adobo; three bay leaves; a hefty teaspoon of dried thyme, another of dried oregano, and another of cumin seeds; a few cracks of black pepper, and four teaspoons of Redmond’s real fine sea salt. (Note to self: cut the salt in half next time.) 

As Martinez’s recipe suggested, I served the shredded beef on corn and flour tortillas and topped with finely chopped yellow onion and roughly chopped cilantro with lime wedges. I used the pan drippings and a cup of water or so to make the sauce, making sure to omit the bay leaves before blending in my Vitamix.

Creating a more elaborate meal, taking a nature walk with my daughters, and finding time for a quiet writing session are the medicines I prescribe myself when I feel my mind beginning to slip, my body becoming numb, and my emotions starting to roller-coaster. 

Although my brain tries to talk me out of doing these things (and presents a convincing argument, at times), my heart and my soul have learned how to defend and protect my well-being. The war is relentless and exhausting—much like the newborn and toddler years of parenthood—but like most wars, hope remains, and in the aftermath of a battle with my mind, I find my footing again and continue marching.

***

My father has battled depression his whole life (and I assume he still does, although I wouldn’t know, as I cut off all communication with him nearly five years ago).

His depressive episodes became more intense and lingered longer as I entered adolescence. He would spend most days in bed, watching television, playing video games, or sleeping. 

I attribute his depression to his failures in “church planting.” For most of my childhood, my father was commissioned by various denominations of the Christian faith to “plant” or start churches to spread the “good news.” 

I have a hard time piecing together memories due to the traumatic life lived underneath a mentally-unwell narcissist’s roof, but from my recollection, with the last church he started—a non-denominational church—the center (i.e. him) did not hold, and the church voted him out of his position as lead pastor. This decision was made after my dad blithely used tithes to buy a welder’s warehouse next door in order to transform the interior into a “modern” church. After all, he was a prophet of God with a “vision.” 

I don’t think his “flock” bought his “good news.” I was in high school at the time and in the early stages of unraveling the madness that was my home life. I became extremely motivated to get into college: my ticket to freedom.

Coincidentally, the church before this final one—a Pentecostal Holiness one—voted him out, too, for reasons I do not know but can speculate now.

I assume that the rejection was all too much for my father to handle and launched him into a deep depression. After that final impeachment, he barely worked, and when he was working, he was in a foul mood. Most of the financial responsibility fell on my mother’s shoulders, and she was forced to work and/or beg family members and local churches for money. She did all this while raising five children and managing a chaotic household. 

For years, we (my mother, three sisters, brother, and I) walked through our lives, tiptoeing around eggshells in our many, many homes, due to our countless relocations, with great fear, fierce concentration, and preternatural agility. 

We were never sure what would set him off—an incorrectly-loaded dishwasher, a disagreement between siblings, or an unpaid bill—and when we did, we paid the price. Usually, our punishment would be a bare-bum, bestial beating by his belt. He would bark Biblical verses to justify his actions, leaving us broken, befuddled, and benumbed. 

When he was in a depressed state, our emotions were split: on one hand, we were relieved because our house was relatively peaceful, and on the other hand, we were distressed, never knowing when the wind would shift and the storm would relinquish its fury.

As a result, we became the world’s most adept listeners: hyper-sensitive to every tick of the ticking time bomb and hyper-focused on the search for signs of its forthcoming detonation.

Hours. Days. Weeks. Months. Years. He missed a lot. 

By the time I ~became an adult~, I was a stranger to my dad. He didn’t know me, and I didn’t know him: a recipe for estrangement.

And so, whenever I became a mom, I vowed to never allow depression to win—to never miss being an essential part of my daughters’ lives. Furthermore, when the dark clouds form and loom above my head and follow my every move, I choose to get out of bed. I choose to take care of them. I choose to teach them. And, I choose to know them. 

I know that my oldest daughter, who will turn four next week, is thoughtful and kind, as observed by her many invitations to “new friends” on playgrounds and parks. I know that she picks up words like flowers in a bouquet and she studies and places them with such precision and care. I know that she brightens up any space, rivaling the sun, with her radiant smile, set by my family’s trademark facial feature: dimples. I know that she is a rule-follower at her core but is also developing into a rule-questioner, too—a point of pride for her mother. And I know that she loves who she is, and I pray that she prioritizes that self-love for all her days, for it may very well be the most important love of all. 

I know that my youngest daughter is starting to bloom at the age of two. I know that she loves people; she waves to nearly everyone she meets and beams, my second sun. I know that she trusts her body; she runs with the “big kids” up playscapes and down slides that intimidate my oldest. I know that music holds a special place in her universe; she delights in testing out various musical instruments and forms of dance. I know that she is in her “sponge phase,” soaking up all bits of information from the three most important people in her life: me, her dad, and her sister. I know that she is still finding her words but already understands volumes of the world around her. And, above all, I know that she is learning to trust herself each and every day, and that one day very soon, she will fly, just like her sister.

And by the way, they know me, too.

They know that their mama is a lover of the arts. They know that she knows the names of many flowers and trees and that she likes to take a moment to pause and listen to the singing birds or the wind making its way through the trees, or hearing the sound of waves lapping at the nearby lake or “Oma’s” beach in South Carolina, or feeling the warmth of the sun on her body. And they know that she will never decline an invitation to kiss or hug her girls; in fact, she offers her love, regularly, without pretence.

Helleborus New York Night

***

After four hours of low-temperature braising in the oven, I take out the roast and let it rest for fifteen minutes or so. I then enlist my daughters to help shred the meat, using two forks while standing on stools up against the kitchen counter. Steeped in the savory aroma of meat, they can’t help themselves and begin feasting.

I take note of the speed in which they are gorging themselves and offer their plates, so that they can begin serving themselves. My husband, manning the cast iron skillet, flips hot tortillas onto their plates and warns them of their temperature. To the side, I fill their cups with water and add shredded cheese, cilantro, and lime wedges to their plates. 

We are like one organism, each with a job, contributing to its overall function.

I savor these mundane moments of this ordinary life, as I do after a bite of an exquisitely-constructed barbacoa taco. For it is in these moments where I am given the opportunity to learn, to love, and to know my family. 

We gather at the table and talk about our day, summarizing the highlights and the lowlights, and we dream of what tomorrow may hold and what it will indeed hold: opportunities to learn, to love, and to know one another, our friends, our neighbors, and our extraordinary planet.

Mealtimes are not perfect in our home. They are nothing special or extravagant most days; my husband works late nights usually and misses dinnertime frequently. My daughters often have loud opinions about “the chef’s menu.” And when I find myself in the midst of a particularly difficult parenting challenge at the dinner table, I catch myself dissociating and have to remind myself to be present and to be calm—a difficult task for someone raised by parents who were reactive and volatile, particularly around the dinner table.

But, there are some evenings, like this one, where I attempt to play goddess of my troposphere, busting the dark clouds that hover overhead. The battle—invisible to my children and the outside world—is real and taxing. 

But, on this particular evening, I cook with a little extra love, despite my mental exhaustion, and my family receives it and is satisfied, audibly thankful. Their satisfaction and appreciation for the home-cooked meal invites me to sit in gratitude for the life that my husband and I have created: a life that is imperfectly perfect; a life that is more than just okay; a life that is worth living.