Cooking

I love to cook. I love it. I love creating new things and not following recipes and eating delicious, miraculously healthy food. I enjoy being in the kitchen and letting my mind settle into the familiar pattern of chopping, cooking, arranging. My hands know what to do. I may not be great at following directions but I can improv the hell out of some meat and fresh veggies. It makes me happy.

Wait, why does cooking make me happy? Let's explore this for a little while. Cooking is something I will most likely be doing almost every day for the rest of my life, but the prospect brings me warm fuzzies. Not my usual reaction. Typically, if you told me I'd be doing the same thing every day for forever I'd run for the hills. Literally, I'd be out of here. Nothing makes me cringe more than that thought. So why am I staying put?

I've written before that one of my favorite places in the world is the middle wooden stool in front of the island in Mom's kitchen. I wish I had kept count of how many hours I've spent sitting on that stool watching Mom cook while we talk with our family and friends. It's refreshing and restorative. It makes me feel like home. I long for my kitchen to make people feel the same way.

I was just discussing marriage and relationships with a long-time friend. I want to be married. I really do. I can't wait to do life with someone. Not make-believe Stepford married life but actually doing real life with someone. The messy parts too. I was made for that, as so many of us are. But if I'm totally honest, as much as I want that life, I mostly just want someone to cook for. Marriage itself can wait. I can say with total confidence that, today at least, I'm not in a rush. Marriage can wait but cooking cannot.

Making a meal for someone I love makes me feel incredible. Has that caught on yet? I get to nourish them. I get to feed their bodies and their hearts. I get to give them something that feels like home. I get to make it with my own hands and watch as something cold and unyielding turns into wonderful sustenance. I've recently developed a new addiction for dinner parties. Our little apartment fills up with new and old friends. Sometimes I wish I could watch from the porch, listening to laughter and loud, inappropriate jokes spill through the windows. I wish I could have all the people I love, every night, eating at my little table. Or on a stool at the kitchen bar.

Cooking makes me feel like I can make a difference, even if only for an hour. Someone can sit near me and we can unpack the day while my hands work at something they were crafted for twenty four years ago. It fills my heart with such sweet, familiar joy. And hope. Hope in the future of that relationship and the kindness of hearts. You could say I'm making this into a much bigger deal than it really is, but think about it for a minute. We have comfort food for a reason. The food itself doesn't really matter all that much, but the human who made it does. It's a little bit of home in a world that becomes increasingly unrecognizable the more we explore it. Cooking, laughing, sharing life in a world that screams for us to be silent and keep our heads down. This is massive, my friends. Make something, bring your friends together, and share the evening. Evenings like that will turn into a life you have lived well.

I know a lot of different things that pique my interest, pretty much everything really. I know fewer things that set my heart and imagination on fire. I love dancing at inappropriate times. I want to see the world. All of the world. Really. I want to have a family one day. I want to love my friends well and provide a home for everyone who steps through my door. And I want to cook for them and make them feel like they are important enough for me to heat up a skillet and make something warm for them. Because they are important enough.