Petit Riz

I have a warped memory of sitting alone in the dark corner of a classroom eating my carrot salad sandwich. I was embarrassed of its smell and how fat and unruly it was, with shreds of carrots overflowing and orange carrot juice dripping onto my fingers. I envied the refined vegemite and butter on saltine crackers the other children ate. They only had to deal with crumbs, which could be swept away with one quick movement. I needed napkins to wipe my orange lips.

Sandwiches for lunch were rare. My mother layered thin slices of cucumber quick-pickled in salt, hard-boiled eggs chopped and seasoned with olive oil, and the famous carrot salad so heavily speckled with parsley that it turned my smile green. I didn’t appreciate the thick, black-crusted bread that soaked the flavors, or the sweet, bright carrots tossed with a squeeze of lemon and salt, or the slender crunch of the cucumbers my mother lovingly prepared at six in the morning. I was worried about my teeth and being orderly as I ate.

We ate many carrot salads throughout my childhood, always pungent with parsley, always lightly dressed with salt, olive oil, and lemon. And then we stopped, I don’t know why, but I can’t remember the last time I ate a carrot salad with either one of my parents.

Though, it’s the salad I bought over and over again the summer before graduate school, and to this day, it’s still my brother’s favorite salad, one that he makes in big batches thanks to the Moulinex grater. This morning I leafed through David Leibovitz’s stunning cookbook, brimming with hilarious stories and bright anecdotes that I’ve rationed to stop myself from gobbling them all in one sitting. I paused at the carrot salad. “There is no one in this country who doesn’t like this salad,” he writes, “and it’s so commonplace that I don’t think you’ll find it mentioned in any of the books on traditional French cuisine.”

I thought back to my summer of carrot salads when I found myself in a slender, triangular kitchen on rue d’Assas, steps away from the Jardin du Luxembourg. My parents had finally sold our house in the suburbs and my father had moved to the center of Paris, a long-time dream of his, if only for a few months. I knew his apartment was temporary. There were boxes in the living room and our old kitchen table was so big it had to be slammed against the wall, and still, there was barely enough space to sit. The oven burned everything because the temperature never stopped rising when we turned it on. But there was a window overlooking a quiet courtyard and the white walls and tiles made the small space feel luminous and open.

We’ve never stayed in one house or apartment for very long, so I’m not easily attached to physical spaces, but this apartment clung to me in a weird, persistent way, especially the kitchen. It was the summer after college and I was working in Paris and living in that apartment, mostly alone as my father was traveling. The only home “cooked” meals I could manage were chocolate cereal, baguette, cheese, ham, and the famous raisin carrot salad from the traiteur down the street. The salad swum in an oily, vinegar dressing and I sucked on the carrot tendrils before crunching them slowly. I stopped drinking coffee and only drank red berry tea. I barely cooked. The closest I came to a hot meal was “seven vegetable” soup from a carton that I heated on the electric stove. I tried to cook a quiche and the crust smoked black before the custard had set. And yet I spent hours in the kitchen, working, writing, reading, daydreaming, drinking more tea. It was one of the few places in the apartment where I could sit at a table. I found my mother’s handwriting on empty jars—rice, quinoa, tapioca, agar-agar—haunting my father’s kitchen. His fridge contained only cheese and yogurt, a no-no in our previous household.

In August I moved to New York. I lived on the upper west side for a few weeks as I hunted for an apartment. I walked up and down Broadway, even on the hottest days when sweat streamed down my legs, because everything felt surreal—being away from Paris, the smell of garbage stewing on the streets, the erratic trains that clanged until my body shook, the soles of my feet black when I removed my sandals at night. I thought about my father’s solitary kitchen and I saw him sitting at the oversized table at 10 p.m. I called him and asked what he ate for dinner now that he no longer had my mother to cook for him. He’s a good, capable cook, but I knew he was working until late. He told me he always ate a bowl of rice and carrot salad. I wanted to laugh and cry. Japan and France combined in one meal.

At the beginning of September I returned to cooking. My kitchen in Chelsea was a narrow rectangle but there was a gas stove and a window overlooking rooftops. My father didn’t stay in his Parisian apartment for long, but long enough for me to return briefly in the winter and the following summer. By then the kitchen was a joyous place, with my two little brothers and their mother and the spicy scent of Thai curry. The space was hands-off. I stood by the door as the boys streamed through their mother’s legs, not knowing how to help or where to stand. She was the expert, having gone to cooking school and managing her aunt’s restaurant when she was in her early twenties. I stared at Larisara, amazed at how quickly she prepared meals. I learned about fish sauce and tamarind paste. I winced when she added ketchup to a sweet and sour dish (ketchup!), but each dish was the kind that had us humming and slurping as we ate. I repeated, between mouthfuls and inhalations: How do you make this? Can I learn? And she would reply: Oh it’s easy. You can do it. I’ll show you.

I missed the long, quiet hours spent staring at my bowl of red tea and spreading butter on bread, of sucking dressing from carrot strands. I missed being in a kitchen and not cooking, not smelling food, the kitchen as a room like any other. Even in its disuse, the kitchen was the one space I still gravitated toward, as if I had no choice.  Where else would I go?

Carrot salad with parsley and lemon

Here is the carrot salad my mother made, that I was once ashamed of, that I now love for the symphonic combination of carrots, parsley, olive oil, and citrus. Toast a slice of black-crusted bread and top with this salad. Check your teeth for parsley before leaving your home.

3-4 big, sweet carrots, grated using large holes of a box grater, or using a Moulinex if you have one
A small handful of parsley, chopped coarsely
Lemon juice
Extra virgin olive oil
Sea salt

Toss in a bowl and eat.

A note on dressing: I like my salad to be lightly seasoned, this means a drizzle of oil, a squirt of lemon juice, and a big pinch of salt. Add more if you like, but start with a light dressing, and then taste before adding more. You want the carrots and parsley to equally shine, rather than drown in a greasy sauce.

For the carrot, egg, and cucumber sandwich: massage thin cucumber slices with a pinch of salt and set aside for ten minutes; mash one hard-boiled egg with salt and olive oil; squeeze excess liquid from the cucumbers; layer cucumbers, carrot salad and mashed egg onto whole-grain toasted bread.