“Daddy, I’ve never seen Uncle Bubba so happy”, said my young niece looking at a photo held in place by a red plastic magnetized “M” on the door of her refrigerator. I was standing then in the cramped galley of a sailboat, baseball cap on backwards, towel over my shoulder, a glass of wine close at hand, dicing and slicing, a pan simmering on the small gas stove. Her father was perched at the salon table with shards of sunlight bobbing along the bulkheads and across his face as the boat gently rocked, camera at the ready. He snapped that photo as I turned to look at him, laughing at his comment. We had just sailed the 30 or so miles from the Southern California mainland across the shipping lanes to Catalina Island where we were safely moored in Avalon Harbor, the barren hills behind the village to the south, the casino on the western point, the sun beginning its descent. To be fair, I can think of no finer moment for me than having just spent the day sailing, cooking a simple but delicious meal and enjoying it topside in the open air as the sun sets and in the company of a close, long-term friend while sharing a bottle of wine and good stories.
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I’ve always enjoyed cooking. That’s not really true. I have no memory of it being even of interest to me as a youngster. Other than observing that when my father cooked, he did little things to make it special. What I do remember is having a disastrous culinary experience at a very nice restaurant one New Year’s Eve and, while walking out before it was over, making a vow right then and there to cook a finer meal for the next one. That was the spark that started my cooking journey. It was steeped in the desire to cook for others with a goal only to make it special, memorable. Now, forty-some years later, the passion for cooking is still there, as is its raison de le faire. Time is the missing ingredient in most of our recipes. The number one mistake we amateur cooks make is not setting aside enough time. And that’s when we rush, take short cuts, miss some key steps, try to hurry things along and the results generally show it. The food industry plays on this sense of panic about time and our busyness - it packages convenience rather than real food. When we feel rushed, we lean more heavily on this crutch. And, we also follow a known psychological pattern – we don’t consider it to be enjoyable so we tend to avoid it or at least procrastinate; we don’t do it as often and therefore don’t develop or remember the basic skills and short-cuts that work; as a result, we don’t improve which invites negative feedback from ourselves or others which further decreases our enjoyment; and the cycle continues. Sound familiar? In his book Cooked – A Natural History of Transformation, Michael Pollan asks “is there any practice less selfish, any labor less alienated, any time less wasted, than preparing something delicious and nourishing for people we love?” I think not. Pollan continues: ““Cooking is all about the connections between us and other times, other cultures, but, most important, other people. Cooking is one of the more beautiful forms that human generosity takes. It is an expression of love.” In Italian, the expression is “cucinare é amore” – cooking is love. We know that one of the greatest gifts we give others is our time, our presence and our attention, and to do so patiently. To do this by cooking is incredibly special. I’m not going to argue that cooking is an efficient use of your time, just that it is a worthy use. Feeling that this expression is appreciated by others, is considered special or at least different, and is truly enjoyed is reward aplenty. It keeps me coming back to the stove, towel over my shoulder, and looking forward to it every time. |