I start this blog at a time when America is in pain. In fear. In a state of unrest. It’s the 9th night of protests being held around the country in response to the horrific murder of George Floyd, a black man held down and killed by four police officers, despite pleas for his mother and cries for some air to breathe.
“I can’t breathe,” George Floyd repeated 16 times. Until he could utter the words no more.
We are a broken nation. Worn down by Coronavirus and torn apart by, amongst other things, racial division.
So why start a blog about food today? At this very moment?
Sheltering in place, I’ve turned to food as a source of purpose and comfort. Cooking it. Serving it. Eating it.
My kitchen has been a source of energy and creativity. Adapting recipes. Creating recipes. Sharing recipes.
I guess in times of unfamiliarity, we turn to what’s familiar. In times of fear, we turn to what is safe.
Our house is not a big one. When you walk in the front door, there it is. And there I’ll be – to the left, kneading rye dough, or trying a new curry, or stirring a dependable chicken stock.
Whenever my husband or kids walk through the door, they’ll gather around the brown speckled island and ask how I’m doing. It’s a game we play, a ritual we honor. I know all they want is to swipe a chunk of cheese or slurp the steamy broth.
And I’ll swat their fingers away, annoyed at their brazenness and enchanted by their enthusiasm.
But if I consent and give them a taste of the curry or the raw dough, I know I’ve got ’em. They’ll pull up a barstool and stick around awhile. They’ll tell me about their day, their thoughts, their plans.
And that’s why I love cooking.
It’s a dance I know so well. My body effortlessly grabs sumac from my mason jar filled pantry, lifts a bamboo spoon out of the stainless steel canister, and sautees garlic and oil in my favorite carbon steel pan.
For a brief moment, I pause. I take stock of the sounds and smells and tastes that join me in my dance.
And I use my hands – connecting with the ingredients I’m using to make something out of nothing.
Before I know it, there’s a bar stool scraping across the floor. I raise my eyes.
Someone is there, lifting me out of my dance, looking for their own connection.
I smile. And I hand my wonderful husband a spoonful of broth.
It’s simple really. The connection.
Everyone has the ability to forge it.
It starts with the conversations we have as we gather – around a brown speckled island or a plastic-covered tabletop or a picnic blanket in our backyard.
Ever notice how talk starts with the food and ends with the heart? So easily, so naturally.
For home cooks everywhere, there’s inevitably a moment when we look around the table or island or blanket and we can’t help but pause. For our hands and our hearts paved the way for that moment.
There’s a quiet power behind this tenderness.
And tenderness is what this world needs right now. What it always needs right now.
So, this blog is for you, the home cook who seeks connection not only with ingredients and cooking but also with those around your table. Here, I’ll share recipes, techniques, and perspectives that will hopefully inspire you to improvise in and out of your kitchen.
We live in uncertain times (don’t we always?) and must commit to keeping our hearts and minds open – learning as we go, stretching our understanding of what it means to be human.
And, I believe, sharing a lovely meal is a fine place to start.
