Chow. Fare. Eats. Bites. Grub. Cuisine (best French word, ever). Slop. Provisions. Rations. Sustenance. Goodies.
We all love it…well, except you weirdos who eat solely for the purpose of survival.
Pleasantly plump, like yours truly. Thin. Average. Athletic. Chunky. Tall. Short.
Food is always crossing our minds in some form. We either love it, fear it, don’t trust it, or live for it.
Me? I’m not a chef. I view myself simply, humbly, pretty plain Jane. I’m a woman of extremes, of passions – seemingly indecisive, but just yearning for room to fill to capacity and overflowing with everything I love and experience.
My mind is a racetrack, an obstacle course, a third grade playground. Thoughts of walks in the forest give underdogs to a middle school slumber party, and before I have time to ask if I can play with them, they bolt over to the tetherball pole to smack around the hilarious away message on AIM from November of my freshman year in college. Together they rally up the most endearing moments of my relationships and play Red Rover with that insane Couch Surfing experience in Madrid and the time I peed behind a twiggy bush in an alleyway in Poland; my childhood fort is left standing alone on its own team and loses. In a flash, they all cross the monkey bars on their way to the tallest slide on the turf, taking with them all the butterflies in my stomach and the time I wore a hunter orange helmet while muddling in a jeep in the woods. They all giggle and scream, pushing each other out of the way to race to the top of the slide and crash down in one big pile on top of my first kiss.
There is no indecisiveness here, only an index full of passion and nostalgia.
Over the past few years I have found that I can give life to nostalgia in the kitchen.
Have you ever had a Ratatouille moment? You know, where you bite into something delicious and hitch a ride in a DeLorean back to one of the most perfect memories that recalls to your memory in that moment? Or perhaps you’ve boarded a hovercraft and sped forward to an exotic destination you’ve always dreamed of visiting. Maybe you’ve basked in the sun at the park and sworn you felt that beloved ex lying next to you talking or you’ve imagined yourself in Scotland on a rainy day.
If you’ve experienced any of these moments, you’ve experienced nostalgia.
I don’t know about you, but I can’t afford to hop a plane every time I want a moment. I can’t always be in my childhood home, or on a Mediterranean beach with an attractive Greek man wearing linen pants and serenading me with a cello, back-dropped by an Adriatic sunset (yes, I just mixed three points of Geography there). However, I can live in the moment.
And those moments happen in the kitchen.
They happen in every knead, punch, slice, pinch, garnish, sprinkle, degree, sear, mix, beat, fold, measure, leisurely pour.
This is a place of my experiences, my thoughts, my memories, my nostalgia, my recipes. My delights as I listen to Enya while make pita bread at 1am during a thunderstorm. My sorrows as I eat an entire Cadbury chocolate bar and mix a giant spoon of non-natural peanut butter into a tub of vanilla ice cream and swirl it around until my bad day disappears into a pool of melted Haagen Dazs. My longings as I chow on a flat of fresh figs. My quiet desires as I practice “normal ingredient” meals for the day I could be a domestic housewife.
Who am I kidding? I’ll never be fully domesticated. There’s too much intrigue, too much opinion for me to just sit back and make green-bean-and-cream-of-mushroom-soup casseroles all day, waiting for my husband in my pearls and vintage dress.
I don’t wear pearls. I don’t do canned vegetables. And chances are – if that day comes – I’ll be holding said casserole in a Le Creuset, wearing some lacy racy black get up appropriate only for maximum wear time of ten minutes or less. Vintage schmintage. Whoever he is, he may not like chevre and arugula, but I’m sure he won’t have a problem with it.
I’ve never been conventional.
I’m a good, wholesome girl. But the golden sweat? The yearning? The flame? The eccentricity?
Welcome to my kitchen.