Ive been waiting to use this phrase, just as long as I have been waiting to really cook again.
This time I havent got any thoughts. Everything I make is on autopilot, there was space before for me to meditate on what energies are infused in my cooking. Now its the residue from which stimulus last raced past my pupils, or something which just glumly dribbled out my ears.
I dont think my cooking is off, but there is no soul. Last week I scrubbed and rinsed some basmati for about 10 mins, in that time Julie Dash sped into the frame and reminded me how rinsing this rice was a trait of the sage. It was embodied knowledge, something the body repeats and reaffirms.
A body which could pull together a wild card of fridge combinations sometimes may look like a conversation between people in time. The closer you get to some kind of a recipe, the more pungent and perfumed the funk of time becomes, the stronger time’s breath hovers near your nose. Is that a crime to want to step back? Exhausted and tired out by politeness.
I am bored of how much I wrote the pronoun I, but I also started writing without any intention of structure or storytelling. I wanted to say that despite having “time” i have been dying for in life, i actually feel more like a cave where more rocks keep falling in and blocking out sunlight. I want to give more, to care more to create more but i just cant leave the house and it really is that simple. It seemed like I was in a pressure cooker at first but I really am just in a rice cooker left on the warm setting.
In May all that feeling of dismal dismay spoke to how I was approaching my situation in life. Frantic in the day, desperately trying to squeeze in food metaphors or language wherever I could make them work, but groundless and floating, lacking any depth in the message. Seeing the words “Food for thought” in my reflection, I can now understand what that means a little more. That which you think nurtures you, and feeds you. That ancient adage was speaking to something slightly different to it’s original meaning, it spoke to understanding how thoughts are transformative.
If I lay in bed at night, ruminating, counting all the ways in which I am misunderstood or misrepresented or even mistaken, then I am feeding that monster which keeps me up at night. Yes I may be misunderstood, but isn’t that okay? Aren’t we all constantly misfiring, or mishearing? And say if I didn’t feel comfortable within that misunderstanding, is that because there is an inherent problem I have, which makes people perpetually think less of me and wilfully misunderstand? Probably not. You can always try saying something another way, or let people say your words in another way.
Each day may spark a new opportunity for lucidity and clarity. Some days will just never, and that is a valuable learning experience too. There is always something to harvest. Plus you can make black garlic in a rice cooker on warm for 2 months.