I know, I know. This is supposed to be all about writing a book. Or about the book. Or something like that. But I’ve spent most of the day working here and there, tidying up chapters, quotes, etc. I got a call from a librarian (the book I want is coming … coming … it’s due back in a week. Ugh.) And, on and off, I’ve been cooking.
Here’s why I love to cook meals for more than just Alana and me:
While I cook, I think a lot. It’s a pleasurable way to pass the time, thinking and cooking. I think about the food. Where it was grown. How it looked when it was in the ground, or on the range. I think about the recent past. Things to remember about this recipe, or that burner, or that one time I ate something close to what I’m making, and how it tasted. I think about the distant past, too. How my friend Brien loved to cook and listen to Robert Cray. He’s sing and move and make cooking into pure performance.
The mere act of cooking refines those memories. I think about my mom—how she really didn’t like to cook, but pretended to enjoy getting a meal together. She’d call from work and tell me what to get what started so she had something in the works when she got home. I think about my dad—how he loved to cook, and the enormous mess he would make. My mom would audibly sigh when she went into the kitchen after my dad had fallen asleep in his chair. HIS chair. (It was a big deal in our house. If you sat in his chair, he’d walk up and growl at you.)
I had a piece of fudge on New Year’s Eve … took me back to Dad and the marshmallow creme he used to stir and stir until it wasn’t marshmallow creme anymore. Then he’d mix in some butter, some chocolate, a little bit of salt and a drop or two of vanilla. His fudge was so smooth … so … unbelievably good.
I also think about the people who will be eating soon. What I will say to them, how much I love gathering a group of people around a table. How I love to eat. (Some people describe themselves as voracious readers. I describe myself as a voracious eater.)
Food does the trick. It triggers the memories. It flows through almost every single page I write. I like to think the flavors linger, somewhere, in the back of my mind. I like to think that some day, when I’ve lost the sense of taste, I’ll be able to think about all this food. All these people. All those meals. And I hope, I really hope, I can conjure the taste of that fudge. Because, hey, if you can’t taste anything anymore … everything should taste as good.