The Art of Cooking

I have a love hate relationship with cooking. In fact, I think that it is my love of it that causes me to so often hate it.

I love thinking through all the aspects of a meal in which each element balances the others. I love making and eating good food. But, most of all, I think the thing I love about cooking is the creative process.

I love combining flavors together into something perfectly complimentary. I love how raw ingredients turn into a dish, the sum of which is so much more than the individual parts.

For me, a recipe is a starting place. Where some see cooking from recipes as predictable and precise, laws that when followed will always deliver a certain result, I see recipes as suggestions. They are a place from which to begin, but rarely, if ever, do I fully follow them. I am always making substitutions, trying new variations, thinking of different combinations.

When I sew, I prefer to avoid patterns and set designs so that I can play around and imagine the creative possibilities. I feel the same with recipes. I like to explore them, be inspired by them, learn from them, but then do things on my own.

Perhaps it is just my independent streak, a deep-seated resistance to authority. Perhaps it is pride or arrogance, an inaccurate view of my own abilities. Perhaps in this area I am no more mature than my three year-old, psychologically stamping my foot and insisting on doing things "MY WAY!"

Whatever the explanation, the truth is that when I feel stifled, when the creative process is lost and cooking is just a rote task, I hate it. I really, really hate it.

And hating it is where I have been spending a lot of time lately.

The problem is that cooking cannot be a creative process, a soulful exploration of flavor and texture for three meals a day seven days a week. I just don't have the time or energy for that. All I would do is grocery shop and cook. Which sometimes it feels like is all I do, even when I am producing mediocre and uninspiring food.

In addition to the time constraints, there are other practical considerations. Such as the fact that every time I prepare a meal, at least one member of my family sits down at the table, looks at her plate, and commences dinner conversation with, "Ewwww! This is gross." Since this little person is on the "Eat what I fix and the rest of the family is having or else eat PB&J" meal plan, I then usually stand up, leave my food, and fix a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

There is also the matter of losing the joy of cooking under extreme pressure. Like trying to make the bus on time, or get myself or Jeffrey out the door for a meeting, or just survive the unavoidable chaos of the 4:30-5:30 hour.

Preparing a beautiful meal while you call out spelling words over one shoulder, try to avoid stepping on goldfish crackers, toys, and all the towels and pot holders that have just been thrown on the floor, listen to and watch the troll dance happening in the family room, discourage over-snacking right before the meal, answer the incessant phone calls of the evening, and try to lovingly respond to constant whining just is not all that creatively stimulating.

And then, when the meal has been eaten, the dishes strewn throughout the kitchen, the mess on the floor abandoned, the children bathed, read to, and in bed, and all alone at 8:30 pm I face the mess that deciding to cook a nice meal created, I wonder, "What am I doing to myself?"

It is in this state, when my depressed and discouraged artist within feels like abandoning all efforts and letting my family survive on Chick-fil-A, that I try to remind myself of all the other reasons I cook. I try to frame cooking in the same light as I frame housework: it is about nurturing. It is about health and frugality, about time together and a well-run household. It is a way I care for and show love to my little family. It is not really any different than laundry or mopping the floors.

As I embrace this perspective I remind myself it is okay to eat tuna sandwiches or just spaghetti for dinner. I reduce my expectations for personal fulfillment in preparing food and allow my kids to eat macaroni and cheese out of a box sometimes. I plug away with diligence in the virtue of just putting food on the table, another task in the long list of tasks that comprise each of my days. I try to simplify the process.

It is a practical, but unenriching approach.

I was overcome by such resignation two weeks ago when I decide to turn a butternut squash into soup. I have played around with squash soup before, but never been fully, completely satisfied with the results. But, this night it happened.

I produced a pot of soup that managed to taste of all the splendor of fall. It was smoky orange and savory, yet sweet at the same time. It was a glorious crisp day when the sun shone through orange and yellow leaves warming my head and yet a cool breeze tickled my nose, pureed in a bowl. It tasted like fall smells and smelled like fall looks.

And, once again, I fell in love with cooking. As I ate, I thought of other dishes I could create, a salad to compliment this soup, a perfect wassail to simmer in a pot, the wild rice and mushroom soup I have been longing to attempt. The soup entered my mouth and nourished my soul.




Want the "recipe" click on the link to Emily's Kitchen. I also have a couple of other recipes that I have discovered, or rediscovered, this fall. Just, bear in mind, nothing is too exact with me. These recipes are just estimations of what I did. Just let go and experiment yourself.