I’ll be on a plane tomorrow (12/24) just to prove once and for all that I’m a little crazy. On the other hand, for the next 5 days other people will be cooking for me. That’s worth a few hours of airpo
Time spent travelling has a kitchen equivalent. Our perception of time as it passes in an airport or on a plane is the same as our perception of the time spent waiting for water to boil. Ironically, someone ultimately gets steamed up in both contexts.
Anticipation may be the ketchup theme song, but it’s pervasive in any well-used kitchen. We smell the cookies before they’re done, and that aroma turns every minute into a seven-times-as-long-dog-minute. But, if the cookies are good, those long minutes imbue them with some kind of enhanced flavor.
Anticipation is a flavor enhancer. When the bread tastes as good as the aroma wafting out of the bakery we experience a kind of culinary nirvana; we are simultaneously in both the real world and a metaphysical world where perfection exists. As we finish the bread that connection is lost, but our memory of the experience sustains us spiritually.
Holidays often include special foods. Other than fruitcake the month of December is a pretty tasty month. If you have not had your mother/grandmother/aunt’s special cookies/cake/roast duck in years you can’t help but look forward to the soon-to-be next taste. You know that nirvana is near.
Maybe that’s what sustains me when I’m unnaturally speeding along five miles over the earth and looking out the window to make sure that none of the bolts holding the wing to the plane are loose. I’m not really calm because I’m closer to heaven (in fact that makes me more nervous). I’m calm because my partner’s godmother makes the best cookies on the planet and I know there will be a batch waiting at the end of my ordeal.
As always, I find some kind of peace in the kitchen.
There’s a cliché about dancing – do it like no one’s watching. Like all such sentiments it holds some reasonable advice about enjoying life and not worrying about what others think.
I have two new puppies. Of course a puppy is new by definition. As I write this, my puppies are 10 weeks old. I’ve had them for just 2 weeks, so they’re new to me, so my “new puppy” reference is expository and not redundant.
(I’ve added this parenthetical in an effort to maintain transparency and maintain my reputation for veracity – to the extent that I have a reputation. The puppies are now 4 months old. It took a while to get this blog up and running. Much like the puppies, a bit of maturity was necessary before they were ready for their debut.)I love to watch Pumelela and Mico (not their full names) do pretty much everything. It took only two days for them to recognize the sound of the dog food canister being opened and/or the clinking of their bowls. They’re even learning culinary Spanish. They know that “suppertime” is the answer to the question “que hora es?” Since they’re French bulldogs I think that makes them trilingual.
As soon as their bowls hit the floor they eat with abandon. They’re not just gluttons – the meal has social rituals too; they switch bowls every 30 seconds. Occasionally they share a bowl.
Youth, even in the form of a puppy, is inspiring. I wish I could enjoy the ritual of every meal the as much as the boys. The world would be a better place if everyone (me included) could eat like a puppy.