(A post from Sunday - one of the joys of living off grid in the way that we do, is that the internet is a luxury, and an intentional choice, that is only available in town - before or after work, or on my space-phone... And so you see, posts are sometimes a few days late...)
A timeless Sunday spent watching kittens watch birds through
the windows, drinking coffee and reading cookbooks. Planning winter feasts. Soul food, this sitting in winter sunlight with the warmth
of burning wood; abundance in its truest form.
The making of a meal is not merely the preparation of
ingredients, but the feeding of a person and the celebration of life. The abundance that exists within each
and every meal is easy to loose sight of.
To forget that each clove of garlic, each onion or carrot or salmon or
potato is the manifestation of so many rays of sunlight, so many grains of dark
earth and drops of crystal water.
To forget that the giving of food to others, serving a meal, is an act
of loving service that has gone on for millennia, defining our species,
connecting family and community.
To forget that each bite we take, be it quick and hurried, or in the
company of others with a lit candle, is an affirmation of our own lives, of our
place within the web of life, and a poignant reminder to be grateful that we
have this bite to eat. And
this.
I spend some portion of my day, every day, in the kitchen in
front of counter and stove.
Midweek, I try to minimize the time and energy after the long drive
home, and explore what all can be made with a slow cooker, and how many ways to
sauté veggies quickly over pasta.
But some days, when there is nothing to do after work and 8 pm seems a
reasonable dinner time, or on the weekends when I like to think that I have
nothing but time, I make meals that are a celebration. Sometimes they are simple and sometimes
elaborate, but each is made with love and each is eaten at the table with a lit
candle. Most meals I make begin
with the chopping of onion or of garlic, sautéed in olive oil and sometimes a
bit of butter. When I first read
Barbara Kingsolver's "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle," I remember smiling
in an instant feeling of kinship with her when she made the same statement
about the beginnings of her family's meals. In that rhythm of chopping and slicing and dicing the
pungent beginnings of a meal, there is a space for ritual. I am not as fast as professional chef,
who dices garlic at dizzying speeds, but I am not slow either, years of daily
practice have ensure a steady speed – but it is a constant speed, there is no
rushing such a task, no shortcuts.
First the papery outer skin of the allium is peeled off by fingers that
have learnt the trick of it, then the knife pulled from the drawer is
sharpened, it slices first one way, and then another; sometimes it is
accompanied by tears as it opens the heart of the allium. Then golden oil sautees pungence into a
richness and a mellowness to savor. It is followed by the dance of ingredients
and boiling water, of herbs and pepper, and finally culminates in the pas de
deux of meal eaten with my darling man over the flame of a candle. The repetition of this process, day
after day, becomes a ritual and an act that borders on the sacred; uniting me
with my own self past and future, and with the countless men and women who have
and who will eat food daily in the presence of fire.
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