When it comes to my culinary skills, I am the furthest thing from Thomas Keller, Wolfgang Puck, or Gordon Ramsey. (Well, maybe I sound like Gordon Ramsey sometimes – oops!) In fact, I often imagine the things Gordon Ramsey would say to me if he ever actually watched me – it certainly would not sound like the elegant and ethereal poetry of Walt Whitman or Edgar Allen Poe. I’m a decent baker and certainly an excellent charcuterie board maker. Regardless of my cooking challenges, I am decent at few things – I can make a bad-ass grilled shish-kabob, my salmon is delicious, I can make pretty damn good tacos, my Alfredo is to die for, and I have received praise for my quinoa salad.
My cooking struggles certainly do not stem from my lack of cooking skills. “If I can figure it out to make it here in my life, I can certainly figure out how to cook like a chef” I tell myself. It’s rather, a lack of patience, time, and desire (to be perfectly honest) to perfect the craft. I work a LOT, and starting to cook dinner at 9 pm on a Thursday night knowing that I still have things to wrap up, and every fifteen minutes of the next twelve hours of my tomorrow is accounted for with meetings, visits, phone calls and emails, does not fill me with any sense of enjoyment. Rather, there is more stress and frustration at how I’ll ever get it all done and cooking seems like an added chore. In fact, sometimes my life is like a romantic comedy, where I scarf down a salad standing over the sink, or skip dinner altogether and have a handful of crackers and a few glasses of wine.
Today was the first time in a long time that I had the luxury of time to cook.
When I say cook, it’s more of a ceremony to me, or “the meditation of cooking.” I love pouring myself a glass of wine, turning on some music, and taking my sweet time to cut my vegetables, slowly sautée everything, watch the kitchen fill with bowls, cups and random utensils. Scruffles is usually curious, and eagerly keeping me company at my feet, delighting in any scraps that fall down. My little apartment takes on a life that is otherwise absent. I’m usually humming and swaying along with a song, wine in hand, basking in the warm glow of soft light and candles surrounding me. (My friends can attest to the fact that I have a deep love for the perfect cozy candle-lit atmosphere). It’s the rare and short-lived occasion that feels like a dream. And most of the time, I can even ignore Gordon Ramsey’s critiques.
I admit that I fantasize about the day I can share that scene with someone special; and I have to remind myself more often than I’d like to admit, that I am able to do this in my beautiful home, overlooking the glimmering lights of NYC, with an escape from the worries of the world. It wouldn’t be this, if it was anything else. It’s perfect just the way it is.
Sometimes, dreams are actually the life we are living, if we just take a moment to take it all in.
Simple Serendipities 