Tables is a serialized memoir by Jason Rodriguez. It’s about the tables that Jason has known throughout his life, the people who sat around them, and the food that they ate. It’s a story about transitions. Start at the prologue for more background and a chapter list.
The Coveted Easy Bake Oven.
The first meal I ever cooked was scrambled eggs. I made them with Cousin Jackie one morning. It was her idea; instead of pouring a bowl of cereal, we would cook breakfast for the entire family. The idea of sneaking around the kitchen to cook a meal and surprising our parents was intoxicating, and I agreed to help without hesitation.
Cousin Jackie lived in Staten Island along with her parents, her older brother John and her younger sister Jillian. One year Cousin Jackie got an Easy Bake Oven for Christmas and she spent the entire day making everyone in the family dry brownies and cakes, as one does with an Easy Bake Oven. Although I was flush with G.I. Joes and He-Man figures, I was jealous of Cousin Jackie’s gift. I wanted my own Easy Bake Oven, but Easy Bake Ovens were for girls. I had a Snoopy Snow Cone Machine, which I loved, but people didn’t want Snow Cones at Christmas, they wanted hot, thin cakes slathered in frosting. Cousin Jackie’s Easy Bake Oven creations were colorful and full of sugar; she’d decorate them in a style that would fit whichever member of the family she was making it for, prompting gasps of joy and gratitude that came out of the folks who got their own cake.
It made sense that I would have made my first meal with Jackie. She was the most celebrated kid cook I knew, and I wanted to monopolize on her Easy Bake Oven fame.
I was excited to use Aunt Jackie’s eat-in kitchen which, as far as I was concerned, was the fanciest kitchen in the world. For context, Mom’s kitchen could fit one body. It was maybe six feet by six feet and had a sink, a stove, a fridge, a garbage bin, and a washing machine that doubled as a food-prep area. Aunt Jackie’s kitchen, however, had a pantry with a trash compactor which was the most decadent, futuristic thing I could imagine. It had a long counter for food prep. And the coolest part of the kitchen was a set-up that I’ve only seen in the diners my family often frequented: a corner booth.
We went about the business of cooking in the heart of the mid-80s, without internet. We also didn’t have a cookbook. We had to cook the eggs based on memory, guess work, and emulation. I remember every part of the process. I remember estimating two-eggs per person and cracking the eggs into a plastic, yellow bowl; absolutely littering it with eggshells and then fishing them out the best I could, one sliver at a time. I remember pouring water into the eggs, both of us believing it would make them lighter. I remember taking turns whisking, the egg mixture spilling out of the bowl. I remember putting nearly a full stick of butter in the pan and watching it melt down. I remember pouring the eggs into the pan and quickly realizing that we put too much at one time. I remember slowly stirring the egg mixture so that it didn’t spill over the lip of the pan and finding some relief as we realized that the egg was starting to solidify. I remember plating the eggs and placing plates around the kitchen table. I remember folding napkins in half and placing forks and knives on top of them. I remember pouring the orange juice and placing the glasses next to the plates. I remember getting the ketchup out, because eggs without ketchup were gross. I remember putting out the salt and pepper. I remember going to wake up the rest of the family and them coming downstairs to eat their eggs.I remember general comments of, “Looks great!” and the excitement that comes with knowing that someone was about to enjoy something you have made.
And then the memories stop.I don’t remember how the eggs tasted. I don’t remember if anyone besides me put ketchup on their eggs. I don’t remember who had seconds or who had orange juice or who just spent ten minutes moving their eggs around the plate instead of eating them.
My first memory of cooking was really my first memory of hosting. It was a memory of preparing the table.
After Ro moved to Germany, and it started to become clear that I wasn’t going to be moving with her, I started having nightmares about home invasions. The nightmares started with someone knocking on my door, or yelling my name from the street; or seeing someone in a dark corner while I was doing something mundane. Once I realized what was happening in the dream, I would start to run, and the invader would chase me out of the house and through the streets. I’d wake up in a cold sweat, stress-eat whatever junk food I had in the house, and eventually close my eyes, panicked that I’d have the dream again.
I told my therapist about my dreams, and we talked for awhile about how lonely the house had begun to feel. There were other patterns of behavior that were looped in with the nightmares. I was obsessed with setting the alarm on the house. I would come home every afternoon to check on the dogs. I got anxious if I was out late, away from home. In a way, I was behaving like the house and the dogs were all I had left; things I had to defend with all I had within me.
My therapist suggested I have some friends over to the house. Throw a party, if I was up for it. Reclaim it, let people in. I’m really not one to do things in moderation, so I decided to start hosting an AirB&B.
I spent two weeks renovating parts of the house that had been emptied out by the move. What used to be the guest bedroom was now just an empty space. I repainted it, laid new carpet. I hung artwork that has been sitting in my closet. Bought some new bookshelves and filled them with books. Purchased a twin-sized pullout couch. The final room looked like a cozy library that a single person could sleep in. I listed it as the cheapest room in all of Arlington. Within a week I was fully booked for a two-month stretch.
I dedicated myself to getting the entire house ready for my first guest. I had cleaners come over and deep-clean every corner. I hung more artwork, checked all the smoke alarms, changed all the lightbulbs. I stocked my cabinets with little snacks and my fridge with things to drink besides water and beer. I made a guide for the area. I made sure I had all of the local bus maps filed away for guests. I clipped dahlias from my garden and placed them in a vase next to the pull-out with a welcome note. I bought a nice robe, new towels, and toiletries and placed them in the room.
My first guest was from the Eastern Shore of Maryland. She spent her weekends driving for Uber in DC in order to make more money. She spent the mornings sleeping and the nights driving. It was the opposite of the cathartic experience I was expecting; instead, I felt terrible. Here was this woman traveling two hours from her house to make an extra buck, and here I was undercutting the neighborhood in order to force some kind of epiphany that I thought would be good for my mental health. The problematic nature of my decisions in this instant didn’t make me feel safe. I locked my bedroom door. I still had nightmares. To make things even worse, my toilet clogged and I got a three-star review. I was a terrible host.
An egg; sunny-side up.
I unlisted the apartment but still had to honor my commitments, and there were plenty of them. My second guest was in town for three nights. She was a solo traveler who was working during the day, so I was bound to see plenty of her in the evenings. I went through the motions, prepped the room and the house, but I kept worrying that parts of my house were going to randomly fall apart or stop working. I started having nightmares about the house catching fire or collapsing. Everything was getting worse, and this seemed like the biggest mistake of my life.
My guest showed up in the early evening. I showed her around the house. Introduced her to the pets. Pointed out where the snacks were. She loved the little details, loved all of the books. She asked if she could take my telescope outside, and she spent some time looking at the moon. Alex, my neighbor, came over and we sat around the table and talked about work and DC and drank wine. We went to bed a little tipsy, and probably a little too late for a weeknight. I still locked my bedroom door, however. I don’t remember having a nightmare.
The next morning I made scrambled eggs and bacon. Whisked some milk in with the eggs, added some salt and a sprinkling of cheese. I set out a bowl of strawberries. I poured orange juice and made coffee and set the table. My guest ate, and thanked me, and went off to work.
The rest of her visit followed a similar cadence.
I ended up hosting on AirB&B for almost two years. I met folks from all over the world and took the time to get to know each and every one. Most of my guests were travelers looking for conversation and a place to stay. Some were there for work; I even had more Uber drivers. I never raised my price. I saw myself as doing a service to the folks who were trying to save a buck. For the price they were paying, all they were expecting was some type of surface to sleep on. At my house, they got much more. When possible we’d spend the evenings together, drinking wine around the table and talking about our days. If they were around for dinner I’d offer them some of whatever I was making. I’d give them rides to the metro station if we were leaving at the same time.
I also stopped locking my bedroom door. Several weeks into hosting, I uninstalled the alarm system in my house. I stopped having nightmares.
Hosting brought me back from a dark place. The least I could do was make breakfast every morning and leave some out for my guests. I’d leave a plate, a napkin, a fork, salt, pepper, ketchup, and a note. I’d sometimes make pancakes, but usually I’d make scrambled eggs.