Growing up, we had a TV in our kitchen, a portable black and white with rabbit ears. My mom liked to watch the news while she cooked. One night she was frying up potatoes and sausages in the electric griddle when I walked into the kitchen. “What’s that?” I said. 

Still looking at the TV, she said, “Russian soldiers.” 

I thought that was funny, so I told my dad and brothers during dinner, and we started calling the meal “Russian soldiers and potatoes.” The name stuck. It became a touchstone story, one of those Oh, Mom stories we still like to tell and hear. 

I’m making the dish tonight, and it’s bringing me back to that night when I walked into the kitchen with my question. I’m seeing it differently now. I see a woman who doesn’t love to cook, but someone has to do it, and it has fallen to her. Her body is in the kitchen, but her head is in the news. It’s the 1980s. In Afghanistan, the Russians are being broken by ragged gangs of mujahideen. The world is changing, and she is trying to pay attention to it, but her son is calling her back to the kitchen. The balance of power might be shifting elsewhere, but not here. 

It’s still a funny story, but it’s something else, too. Something to do with yearning, bound. Something to do with stretching, and getting snapped back. 

My own kitchen smells like rosemary and fennel. It’s almost time to plate up, but before I get snapped back to my kitchen, my family, I want to stay another minute in that old scene. In my mind, I’m walking into that kitchen with my mother. What should I do? Stir the potatoes for her? Ask her what’s going on in Afghanistan? Maybe I’ll be still. Watch with her. Not interrupt, for once. In that way, we can each be in both places as long as possible.